Fae
by HGRomance
Summary: When they were children, he stole her heart. But then he vanished and she never saw him again. Many years later, Katniss finds a portal into an enchanted and dangerous world, guarded by a fae boy who seems vaguely familiar. Fantasy AU. Banner by Mr. HGRomance: archiveofourown .org / works / 683931
1. Chapter 1

**Here's a preview of my new story coming in March! I have to admit, I'm extremely nervous about following up Rebel. But I've been wanting to create Fae!Peeta for a long time, and I hope you like him ;)**

**Please note: A "fae" is known as a very young faerie (or fairy). From what I've learned, there are different kinds of fae legends. So I've created this world to fit the plot, mixing inspiration with lore. If that works for you guys, enjoy!**

**Thank you to my betas, DustWriter and Chelzie.**

**My sweet husband made me a stunning Fae banner for Valentine's Day. Check it out on my AO3 account!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own THE HUNGER GAMES trilogy. It belongs to Suzanne Collins. I merely want to spend more time with her characters.**

**Musical inspiration: "Signs" by Bloc Party.**

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FAE

_Prologue_

_Once, there was a girl..._

Whose mother was sleepwalking again.

The girl was torn from a dream, ripe with magical places and people, and beset by the creak of the house's front door opening and closing. The rusty sound, tremendous yet gaunt like her mother's face, made the girl want to cry. She hated nighttime.

She burrowed deep into the bed and hid under the blanket, one eye poking out and peering at the inky sky through the grid of her window. She had a pretty bedroom, with ruffled sheets in different shades of green and a paper-lamp displaying an enchanted forest. The cut-out silhouettes of coiled flowers, an unearthly bird in flight, and human-like figures playing pan flutes were spotlighted against the four walls of her room, revolving like a carousel: familiar and safe.

The girl knew she needed to rise and catch her unconscious mother, yet this chore always terrified her. She dreaded having to bring the woman back home and start the cycle all over again the following night. She hadn't told anyone about her mother's problem, fearing that she and her sister would be taken away, living Mom-less somewhere, the leftovers of their family split indefinitely.

Grunting, the girl swung her feet out from the blanket and down to the floor, lacing her shoes and draping a sweater around her nightgown. As her little sister slept peacefully in another room, most certainly clutching her stuffed cat, the girl tiptoed out of the house, her long braid swishing like a horse's tail. She hurried down the narrow street of their sedate, red-bricked town, knowing her mother's bare legs were sweeping toward the cemetery.

In such times as these, the girl missed her father most of all. He would know what to do, because he could fix anything. She had worshiped him like the first signs of spring, the act of loving him as natural as pointing out north, south, east, and west.

But then he died. And when he died, the girl's mother also died. Her heart shrank and wrung itself dry. She spent hours fidgeting with her wedding ring, too engrossed in being a widow to remember to be a parent. She wore her grief like something she'd easily pulled off a hanger, an emotional illness that fit her to perfection.

And even though the mother often times sat on the porch with her two daughters, huddled together in the arms of the cracking wicker love seat—and how funny that it was called a love seat—she no longer saw them. She'd fallen blind to their suffering, so lost that not even their feeble pleas unlocked the mother from her catatonia.

For the eldest daughter, life became harder. Being a caretaker scared her. She was young, only ten years old, and she didn't know how to peel potatoes much less boil them, so how could she nurture a mother made of glass and a six year-old sister?

The mother's sleepwalking episodes took root soon after the father's death. They were unpredictable. Life wasn't fair.

The girl's feet carried her through town.

Until the faint but animated strum of a fiddle stopped her. Encircled her.

And there was more.

A regal, mystical, floral scent—something like a blue flower.

The confetti-like burst of someone giggling. Yet there was no one around, for it was the middle of the night.

The girl wondered if her magical dreams were following her. How very odd.

She caught up with her mother, wrapped in a robe dyed a mournful lavender hue, stumbling like a stringless marionette toward the cemetery's gate, beyond which the father was buried. The pitiful sight no longer broke the girl. She'd seen it many times by now.

The moment she reached the wrought-iron partition, the peculiar laughter, music, and blooming scent all vanished. She shook off the sensations, shoved them back into the treasure chest of her mind until she could return to bed. She gently scooped up her mother's hands, stared into her mother's unseeing eyes, and felt her mother's smooth skin but not her love. Not anymore.

The girl tried to coax her mother home. As usual, the woman flinched like a sparrow, not wanting to leave, because the headstone was so very close, only a few yards away.

"Please," the girl said. "Mommy, please. It's alright. Come home."

The mother wouldn't budge. The girl frowned, frustrated and still sleepy. That's when sound of his voice drifted from behind, weightless and unexpected as a breeze.

"Sing to her," he said.

kpkpkpkpkp

_And then there was a boy..._

Who had been standing near the gate, behind the girl and her mother. The girl whipped around and stared into a pair of magnetic eyes, polished as jewels, open and unyielding, twin beacons of light mining their way through the dark and flashing blue. He peered at her, a prolonged inspection, as though she was not what he expected.

What she saw surprised her, too. Small ears peeked beneath shaggy golden hair. Dusty pants, too large for him, the hems puddling around his ankles. Hands with scabbed knuckles and dirty, chewed-up nails.

And those defiantly blue eyes. Eyes that had probably never seen their own mother do something embarrassing like sleepwalk.

"Who are you?" she hissed. "What are you doing here? Were you sneaking up on me? Playing a trick or something?" She raised an eyebrow. "Go on. Get out of here."

The boy didn't move.

"What are you staring at?" she asked.

"I'm no one. I was escaping from my family. I wasn't sneaking up on you. You were making a lot of noise, so I not-on-purpose heard you, and you looked scared, so I followed you. I play games but not tricks. And I'm staring at _you_."

This made the girl angry. Her grip on her mother tightened as she tried to lead her away, but the woman made an infantile noise of protest.

The girl glanced sideways at the boy and grated, "What do you want?"

"I already told you. I said, sing to her."

"And I said, go away!"

"I bet singing will help."

"There's nothing—" her throat cracked, but she tried to cover it up. "There's nothing wrong with my mom, okay?"

"I know," the boy answered. "She's just sad. Like you."

The girl blinked. Her eyes watered.

"Sing to her," he urged.

It might have been his kindness or the accuracy of his words. But mostly, it might have been the relief of having someone else know about the sadness, the length and width and shape of that sadness, and for someone to care, and for the girl to have company in her sadness, because her sister had retreated into her cartoons and needed to be fed, and their mother was here but gone, and it hurt so much to be alone. So to have someone else know, just _know_, filled the girl's body with unshed tears.

She gazed at her shell of a mother, who seemed to be listening, maybe waiting for a song...maybe for the lullaby they used to hum together. And so the girl cleared her throat.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow..._

The lyrics bubbled out, tentatively and tiny. When she noticed how the boy gazed at her, her voice steadied. It expanded and floated over the street.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm. _

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm._

And finally, like an outstretched hand, the lullaby reached her mother. She stirred, the lines in her face smoothed out, and her eyes closed. And she opened her mouth. And she sang with her daughter.

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay. _

_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

The girl could barely continue, because it had been so long since they did this together, so long since her mother did anything with her. Hope blossomed within the girl, tall and natural as a vine. The woman was still adrift, still did not see the source of the music, the child calling out to her, but she heard, she remembered. She let the source guide her from the cemetery and down the road, one foot, then the other.

The boy helped. Gently, he held the mother's left hand while the girl held the right one, and together they took the mother home. No words were spoken, but the girl suddenly felt as though she'd found an ally.

Their squat home had a wooden door, a stone walkway leading to the porch, and whole bunch of things she'd never paid attention to before, like chipped paint, a busted light bulb in one of the sconces framing the entrance, and weeds suffocating the lawn. The girl fretted over letting the boy inside, where things looked even worse, but then she glanced at his tattered clothes and realized it didn't matter.

The boy waited in the living room while the girl put her mother to bed. She did so in a hurry, revived by the presence of another kid in the house, a new thing in this place where newness had long been forgotten. Her insides fizzed like sparkling water, making her feel effervescent and giddy.

After tucking her mother in, the girl bounded across the carpet, eager for more of him. He stood in the shadows by the front door, his gaze finding hers the moment she emerged from the corridor. It was easy to look upon him.

"Thanks for helping me," the girl said. "I owe you."

The boy cocked his head. "Why?"

_Yeah. Why?_

"Because that's how it works," she guessed. "A favor for a favor."

He half-squinted, half-smiled. "You don't know, do you? The effect you can have."

She hesitated. "Are you making fun of me?"

"You're moonlight. How could I ever make fun of moonlight?"

She didn't understand. She didn't understand his bright eyes, his honeycomb locks, or the clarity in his voice, fresh as a dewdrop, or what he meant by moonlight. Or why he charmed her.

The boy watched her with the curious expression of someone who didn't need answers. A gatherer of questions, of imaginings. That expression belonged inside her paper-lamp, with all the other ethereal beings she could not have conjured up on her own, not even in dreams.

He tapped his chin in thought. "Okay. I have a favor. I want to be friends with you. And your voice."

"You want to be friends with my voice?"

"I want to hear more of it."

Maybe he was a little crazy, the girl thought. Maybe that's why she liked him. She normally didn't like boys. Boys were stupid.

Without asking, he took the girl's hand and squeezed. The touch jolted them like lightening as they gasped and stared at each other. The peachy complexion and tender angles of his face set her thoughts off course while her heart did something weird in her chest. If she was moonlight to him, then he was sunset to her. She told him so.

He grinned. "That's what you'll call me: Sunset."

He really was funny, the girl thought. And so she squeezed his hand back and said, "I can be Moonlight."

And from that moment, they were both goners.

kpkpkpkpkp

_And after, there was a game..._

Which they played every day. A game of hide and seek in the woods. A game where they had to guess each other's favorite colors. A game where she talked about archery and he talked about art.

A game where they took turns listing their woes, passing them back and forth like a ball. How the girl's father went hunting one morning and never made it home, supposedly cornered by a bear, or a wolf, or who knew, because all that was found was his quiver of arrows. How the boy's parents abandoned him and he'd been dumped with his wicked foster family, who treated him cruelly and made him work in their bakery, even during his home-school hours.

"I sneak out of the house at night," the boy told her. "To escape and explore."

"Is that what you were doing when I first saw you?" the girl asked.

"I like to pretend I live somewhere mysterious. Somewhere they can't get to," the boy said.

"I can do that with you," the girl volunteered.

It became another one of their games, to invent fantastical worlds where kids could play forever and anything was possible, including happiness. Whenever they were together, she recognized the mysterious sounds and scents—opulent (and possibly blue) flowers and instruments and naughty laughter—following them. She longed to ask the boy if he noticed these things as well, but she worried the sensations would disappear if she mentioned them.

Instead, she told him about her dreams of enchanted forests. And he told her that his foster mother once warned him about faeries, how they're known to kidnap children and take them to their realm.

"She says they steal your memory and turn you into one of them," he mused. "Children become _fae_—young faeries."

"That's a lie," the girl pouted.

"I would never want to forget you."

"She only said that so you wouldn't run away."

"No, she just wanted to scare me because she can. She makes me work, but I don't think she cares if I run away. I'm replaceable," the boy sighed. "No one needs me."

I need you, the girl thought. But she held her tongue.

Yet the next time the girl's mother sleepwalked, the boy wasn't out on one of his "escape" walks to help, which made the girl feel powerless, even though the singing worked again. The following day, she wept when she confessed to him how lost she felt without him. And from then on, the boy crept into the girl's room and shared her bed, entangling himself with her—"Goodnight, Sunset," "Sleep tight, Moonlight"—and taking turns, one of them drifting off while the other listened for the mother's footsteps in the hall.

They played a game in which Sunset helped Moonlight with the cooking during the pockets of free time his foster family gave him. Occasionally, they played a real board game with the girl's little sister, who liked Sunset very much.

"Do you two kissy-kissy each other?" the little sister once teased.

The girl and boy blushed at each other across the scattering of plastic pawns and dice.

One night, she rested her head on his shoulder and asked, "Why do you call me Moonlight?"

He shrugged. "It's a secret."

She scowled. "Fine. I won't tell you why I call you Sunset."

"Aww, shucks," he chuckled.

She socked him in the arm. He tickled her.

They were too busy laughing to hear the footsteps, the whine of the front door, and the click of it shutting. It was the little sister who alerted them, hiccuping and shrieking because she'd wanted a glass of milk and gotten out of bed.

"Mommy's gone! Mommy's gone!"

The boy and girl fled after the woman, but she was not to be found at the cemetery gate, nor the fountain at the center of town, nor the main street, nor the church, nor the school. Terror spiked the girl's blood, because this was not a game she wanted to play.

She began to cry. The boy hugged her, his breath against her skin. "We'll find her."

The woods were the only other place they hadn't searched. The closer they got to it, the more insistent the otherworldly sounds and smells became, the sensations that always followed them around. But for the first time they felt less majestic, more distrustful.

The boy and girl paused at the edge of the forest. They stood beneath an apple tree, the pink scent of the blossoms ruining her, because they didn't smell as pleasant as they should.

"We need to split up," the boy said, and when the girl wavered, he touched her cheek. "We'll meet here. I'll come right back. I promise."

"Okay," she whimpered.

His blue eyes caressed her face. His lips comforted hers in a brief yet soft first kiss. She watched her Sunset vanish into the trees, his blond hair fading along with the rest of him. The sight iced her from head to toe with something akin to foreboding.

As she prowled the wilderness, the girl thought of her mother wounded or inanimate somewhere, prey for animals or other spectral threats in this untamed arena. Instead, the girl found the woman sitting in a meadow and singing their lullaby. The girl clung to her mother, then ushered her back to the apple tree to wait for the boy.

Only the boy wasn't there.

They waited until the mother got anxious despite her hazy state, which forced the girl to bring her home before returning to the tree. When she got there, the girl realized what was different. The sounds and smells that accompanied her and the boy were gone, had been gone since they split up. Her foreboding escalated to certainty, certainty to dread.

Those sounds and smells had never been following _them_. They had been following _him_. She'd merely been a witness to their penetrating, deliriously stunning call.

_Where are you? What have I done letting you go? What are they doing to you?_

The girl paced by the apple tree. She ripped out the blossoms and sent them tumbling to the ground, along with her bitter tears.

Days passed. People in their wee town speculated the boy might have run away. Or was attacked by a nocturnal beast. Or stumbled in the dark, fell into the river, and drowned. The girl refused to believe these tales. She went out every evening, retracing his nightly escape walks, hunting for him.

A week later, the search party found something. His sweater matted with blood.

The girl's legs gave out that day.

His foster parents only showed enough sorrow to satisfy bakery patrons. They didn't have a funeral because he wasn't their real son, and they couldn't have paid for it anyway.

The girl buried his memory beneath the apple tree. She brought dandelions for him, used a flat rock to mark his grave, and wrote on it with a stick of orange chalk.

_Sunset _

_He liked to play. He liked art. He deserved a family. _

"Come, dear."

She turned her burning gaze on her mother, who stood a short distance away, beside the little sister, who clutched her stuffed cat. They'd been quiet, granting the girl privacy but wanting to pay their own respects. For the first time, the mother's gaze was sober. Understanding her daughter's pain, the woman had returned from the abyss and pledged to take care of them, give them a full life.

But it was too late. To her shame, the girl could not decide whom she would have rather lost that night, if given a choice.

The mother knelt beside her daughter and smoothed her braid over her shoulder. "Come home, Katniss."

"Just a little longer," the girl pleaded.

The mother and sister left Katniss to soak in her grief. Her fingers curled over the stone and clenched the cold surface. She stirred up an image of his face, trying to memorize it, realizing she did not have a picture of him. His foster family had given his only photo to the police.

All she had of him was a sketch in her mind. It would have to last.

She missed his cinnamon aroma. She missed his dirty golden hair. She bowed her head, parted her chapped lips, and sucked up a valley of air…

_I love you._

...and the wail that bled out of her thrust itself into the wind.

No one had ever told him that. Not one person. She had the chance but would never get it back.

She screamed until her lungs flamed. She curled up against the headstone, where she sobbed herself to sleep, intent on waking up by his side.

As the months passed, Katniss's face turned to stone while her ability to feel emotions shriveled to the size of a hard pearl. Yet she kept dreaming of far off places. Purple skies, emerald green moss cascading down the necks of trees, white lights buzzing through branches, glittering petals, the strings of a fiddle, lagoons that whispered secrets if she listened close enough.

Years later, when she traded her ruffled sheets for flannel ones, her storybooks for textbooks, and her virginity for a bad homecoming date, the dreams tempted her with words.

_Come closer_, the magical land beckoned_. _

_He waits._

_He waits for you._

_Always, he waits._

The plea dug a well into her heart, but Katniss didn't respond to it. Because those dreams revealed a strange place, full of strange things and perhaps even stranger folk. And she didn't believe in fantasy anymore. Nor did she trust it.

For it reminded her of him. The boy who vanished just like her father, the boy she never forgot, whose grave she visited every year with dandelions and new orange chalk to touch up the headstone. Her first love, whose face slowly began to fog, whose birth date she didn't know, whose name she never learned. All because of those stupid games they played.

Katniss hated the illusions and their insistent call. She ignored them until, finally, the summons waned and gave up…or maybe lost patience with her. And thank God, she thought, because she was a teenager now, not a little kid. This was real life. Where the sky was either gray or blue. Where the forest was just a forest. Where people didn't _come right back_. Where games weren't fun anymore.

Where boys like him weren't real. And neither were dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here we go :) Updates will be posted every Friday. Although this story is nearly complete, there are lots of plot-dots to connect between chapters, and each one has to be in sync with the rest of the story and polished before posting. I'm also working on a novel, so time skips away from me. **

**Thank you all so much for reading this. I love magical worlds, and I really hope you enjoy this one!**

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_Moonlight_

Prim is taking forever to get ready, so I wait for her in the backyard. I loop my legs through the tire swing attached to the ancient oak tree and secure myself into the rubber doughnut hole, glancing suspiciously at the ropes knotted around the branch above. They look brittle and tired from having been in a tug-of-war for so many years, the fibers splitting like the ends in my dark hair.

How long has it been since we replaced those ropes? I hope I don't fall on my ass.

My sister complains that I worry about the smallest things. She's right, but I'm not going to change. Someone in this family has to do the worrying.

Tentatively, I rock back and forth, the soles of my shoes skimming the dusty lawn. I trace the worn threads of the tire, watching my nail polish—indigo with a touch of purple, the shade called "Nightlock"—shimmer beneath the moon. The scent of lilacs wafts over from our neighbor's house.

It's the first warm spring night we've had in town. I love it. I've been dying for it. I can't stand space heaters anymore. They don't really heat that well to begin with, and if we forget to turn one of them off to use the microwave or blow dryer, the fuse blows.

The upside is that we're not as dirt poor as we used to be. Last summer, Mom finally saved enough from her job at the hospital to give our house a fresh coat of dark green paint and replace broken fixtures. Our home is cozy, clean, and compact.

I wish Sunset could see the place now. He would have liked it. He would have helped with the painting...I roll my eyes. I keep rocking on the swing, rocking myself right out of that thought.

The neighbors' pooch, Bonkers, is yipping like crazy. He's kind of spastic, which probably has something to do with his owners exercising him with a laser pointer rather than taking him for an actual walk. I pet-sat him once for cash, when I was twelve, but he fucking chewed up Prim's stuffed cat, mistaking it for a handout.

Dad gave Prim that plush toy. Some things are irreplaceable.

A bird lands by my feet. My heels grind into the dirt, freezing me on the swing. I frown, mystified, as the creature perches on the toe of my boot and gazes up at me like, I swear to God, it's waiting for me to do something.

But that isn't the strangest part. It's the extra long beak, out of proportion to its body, and the gold-tipped wings that startle me. They're really, really gold. Metallic gold. I've never seen a bird like this before, not even during the summers when I spend every morning hunting.

The golden critter flaps its wings, the feathers reminding me of flames. The minute the back door to our house swings open, it takes off. It vanishes so fast, soaring off in the direction of the moon, that I wonder if I should mention it to my therapist next time.

Prim bounces out the door like the segment of a pop-up book and meets me at the swing. She bumps it with her hip. "Pinkie swear that you won't grunt the whole time we're out."

I grunt hyperbolically for good measure. It pisses her off whenever I do exactly what she asked me not to, but it's also justified tonight. We're on our way to some student art exhibition at her middle school. I'd already suffered through a head-case session this afternoon and don't want to endure a double-dose of torture today.

Art always makes me think of Sunset.

Unfortunately, Prim made me promise to go with her. The exhibit is starting pretty soon, but instead of pestering me to head out, she plops onto the opposite side of the tire. When we were little, we used to spin in this contraption, trying to see who would get dizzy and puke first. Most of the time, it was her.

We press our toes into the ground and begin to sway. The crickets do their thing, droning like an out-of-tune string section. The atmosphere is nice and peaceful until she spoils everything with her next question. "So what did Dr. So-and-So say?"

I don't want to talk about it. I don't need a therapist. I'm a high school junior, I'm on the archery team, and occasionally I sing in the shower. There's nothing wrong with me. A long time ago, I folded myself up like a shirt, stepped over imagination's threshold and into reality, becoming a girl who took less midnight walks and more aspirin.

Sure, since Sunset died I'd been bombarded by dreams about faeries calling to me, inviting me into the type of world he and I used to pretend really existed. But I haven't had one of those dreams in a year. Yet Mom still makes me go to a shrink because, well, it remedied her sleepwalking issues, so she believes it will cure me of the crap she thinks I haven't finished dealing with. My school counselor had betrayed me and agreed with this.

My sister will nag until I answer her. "Apparently, I'm doing an honor roll job of repressing my grief. It's moved on from dreams and now manifests itself through my relationships with boys."

She gasps. "How dare he! I can't stand people like Dr. So-and-So. They're such...such doctors."

I hate when she sides with the establishment. "Prim—"

"I mean, your Gale-playing-hopscotch dream is an obvious sign that you've moved on to other zones of teen angst. Speaking of Gale, why did you drop him again?"

"He wasn't practical."

"You said it was because he trophied in pickleball."

"Yeah. So what? It's a mutt sport."

Technically, the game is some hybrid combo of badminton, tennis, and table tennis. I don't get it. Why can't Gale choose one or the other? It's like he's indecisive. Indecisive guys are unreliable guys.

Prim holds up her index finger. "I will preface this: No, he wasn't the ideal boyfriend. Not because he smelled like peanuts, even though he did, but I'm not as freakishly picky as you. And yes, sometimes he could be a self-righteous prick—"

Who the fuck is teaching her this language...oh.

"—so I'm not defending him when I say it wasn't about pickleball."

My sister and I love each other. That doesn't stop us from laughing one minute and screaming at each other the next. My clenching gut is a red flag, warning me this will get ugly, that my tolerance level is plummeting.

My voice can't get any flatter without it being pushed through a fax machine. "Are we going or what?"

"Katniss, it wasn't about pickleball. Admit it. And Cato—that break-up wasn't about his insensitivity issues, because you're not much better in that department. And that boy you went to homecoming with. What about him? What was wrong with him?"

"Hey," I snap. I'd mistakenly given that bum my virginity. I don't know why. I didn't even care about him, and I didn't enjoy the sex. I cried in the bathroom afterward.

Prim knows better than to bring him up. What she thinks has always been clear, but she's never ever spoken bluntly about it before. She lets Mom do that. The brutal honesty is worse, and unfamiliar, when hearing it out loud from my little sister.

I think about the rope keeping the swing aloft, gradually tearing with each movement we make.

"Why won't you admit it?" Prim counts off her fingers. "You've stopped having those dreams, but you're still afraid to go to sleep. You hate fantasy and fairytale movies. When you found out you had to read _A_ _Midsummer Night's Dream_ for English, you went on strike and tore out the book pages in front of the class."

"Five pages. Five measly pages. God, get your facts right."

"Because it's all about facts with you, isn't it?" she gripes. "There's no room for the Katniss you used to be. The one who didn't mind a little fiction."

"Oh, give it a rest. You knew that Katniss when you were six. How much of her could you remember?"

"And you hate playing board games. You sneer at art. You make up excuses not to date cute guys."

"They're not excuses."

My head's starting to pound. Prim is on a roll.

"It's been seven years," she says. "Sunset wouldn't want you to be like this."

The tire is too stiff to sit on for this long.

"He would want you to recover."

Bonkers is still barking.

"You're doing his friendship a disservice. You need to get over it—"

I shout, "When are you going to learn to be a little sister, bow down to my will, and shut up!"

"Maybe when you stop comparing every normal boy to a _dead _one! It took you less time to get over Dad's disappearance!"

It's like brakes screeching against pavement. I stop swinging, abruptly jerking the tire to a halt. In my head, the crickets have ceased their racket, the dog goes mute, and mist shrouds the air. My mind goes blank, but my heart does many other painful things.

Prim's hands cover her mouth. Her eyes glisten with remorse.

I get off the swing, snatch my orange backpack off the ground, and walk away, cutting to the front of the house, then down the street toward her school. It's close enough that we don't need to drive, which is good because our family has only one car, and that car is with Mom at the hospital.

Behind me, I hear the slap-slap-slap of Prim's sandals on the sidewalk. Good. She's keeping her distance. I'm not flaking on my promise to go to the art exhibit, but I don't want to talk to her right now.

The town is mostly the same, though Sunset's foster family abandoned the bakery and moved away a couple of years ago. My best friend had been so sheltered from this place. People paid no attention to him. He was as significant as a puff of smoke. The only times he ever left the bakery were to be with me, and we always kept to ourselves.

After his death, everyone became aware of him. He was news. He was tragedy. He was a cautionary tale.

That's when things got weird. His foster family, and everyone else in town, began referring to him as Sunset. I couldn't get answers about his real name from the family, nor anyone else who might have possibly known what it was. Because they all kept insisting that "Sunset" was, in fact, his name. I tried to refute this, but it never stuck.

To this day, I still don't get why I'm the only one who believes, who _knows_, he had a different name. It's like his death warped the town's reality. Even Prim thinks the same as the locals. No matter how many times I've told her "Sunset" was just a nickname, she always argues that my memory is false.

It's not. I may be going to therapy, I may be accused of having grief issues, but I'm right. And everyone else is wrong.

No one understands what it was like to see him vanish into the bushes, to _not _know what happened to him, and for it to be all my fault. Even though it sounds pitiful, he still owns my heart. I miss him so much, but it also hurts to remember him. Except for my annual visits to his grave, I try not to.

Still. None of this means I need a shrink. I can take care of myself.

My hair fans against my neck. I've left it loose tonight, wanting to feel the spring breeze brush through it. The funny thing is, it's still a beautiful evening. My emotions can rage all they want, and it will still be a beautiful evening. Nature is independent that way. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, the sky is still there, with it's moons and sunsets. I can't escape.

kpkpkpkpkp

The student exhibition is being hosted in the auditorium, which is commonly a big empty hall. Tonight, partitions create the layout of a maze, separating the art displays into small sections based on grade level. There's also an area where teachers and anonymous artists have contributed their work to a permanent collection for the school. I'm surrounded by acrylic and pencils and chalk and metal and glass and ceramic and wires and video installations. Art ranging from traditional to the WTF? The range is surprising, especially for a middle school.

Students and their families mill around. I make sure not to look too closely at the art. I move from one display to the next like an underworked docent. How long do I have to be here?

I sulk until I reach a painting that catches my attention. It's a six-foot tall landscape on canvas depicting an enchanted forest, riddled with onyx black trees that have curled stumps, like hooks, but no roots. Beneath an amethyst sky, emerald moss creeps across branches. Buds of white light slither through the woods.

There's something distrustful yet seductive about the piece. It's a magical place but not an innocent one. It seems familiar.

The plaque says, "Artist: Anonymous."

The flipper beat of my sister's sandals gets louder, then stops right next to me. We came here because one of Prim's classmates submitted a few abstract watercolors, and Prim wanted to show support, because that's who she is. Caring. Considerate. She's not on student government for nothing.

I admire her. I'm still not talking to her.

"Talk to me, Katniss," she begs. "Please."

I ignore her blotchy, guilt-ridden features and pretend to be fascinated by the painting, which isn't hard to do. Where have I seen these woods before?

A stringed instrument threads through my memory. I glance around, expecting someone to be playing a tune for the guests, but I don't see a musician.

And then...then an exotic aroma, maybe a unique breed of flower, wafts right under my nose.

"I'm sorry, okay?" Prim says. "I'm so, so sorry."

I don't feel lucid. I'm tackled by instant sensory overload.

Prim tips her head to the side, distracted for a second, which makes me wonder if she hears and smells these absurdities, too. But then she blinks and focuses harder on me, raising her voice. "Katniss, seriously, I didn't mean what I said. I just wanted to get you to talk."

Doesn't she know that people are beginning to stare at us?

I respond trimly, "You've talked enough."

"You can't hold it against me for caring!"

Whipping around, I get in her face and hiss, "Listen, just leave me alone. I can't take your shit apologies right now. I'm tired of you."

I stomp off and get lost in the maze, giving myself a chance to reboot. Yet the sensations follow me. To distract myself, I turn on my phone—my one luxury—and scroll through text messages. Three from Gale.

An hour ago: _Thanks for breaking up with me in a text, deer hunter. _

Thirty minutes ago: _You seem to have forgotten that I play soccer, too._

Five minutes ago: _Bitch._

Huh. I guess these were meant to be insulting, but I don't have the right to hold it against him. I did send him a text. I knew he'd pound his chest and throw a masculine fit if I told him in person, and then I would have to explain myself without rehearsing first, and I'm not good at expressing things in a deep, heartfelt, sensitive way. Not even with Prim.

I've only been able to do that with one person. One boy.

Sighing, I retrace my steps to find my sister. We've never been that mean to each other, but I'm the older sibling, so it's on me to patch things up and forgive her.

When I get back to the forest painting, she's not there. I comb the entire auditorium several times before my annoyance gives way to apprehension. I check the bathroom, then the lobby. I speed walk through the hallways, peeking through classroom doors. I go back to the auditorium and check my phone, but it's useless because Prim doesn't have one of her own. She could have borrowed someone's cell to find out where I was, but there are no messages from her. And she's not the type to hide from me out of spite.

It's happening already. The sweaty palms. The nerves flickering like bulbs in my stomach. There's no security on campus, and come on, this is a small town. So I try to act calm and big-sisterish as I ask moms and dads and kids if they've seen Prim. Everyone shakes their heads. One of Prim's teachers assures me they'll keep an eye out for her and instructs me to report back if I still can't find her soon. A few strangers who don't know her—visiting relatives I'd guess—ask me to describe her.

And then they ask what she's wearing. I swallow a boulder-sized lump in my throat. I don't know what she's wearing. I have no clue.

"Sandals," I say to them hollowly.

It hasn't been that long, maybe half an hour. But my father vanished on me. My best friend vanished on me. My mother almost vanished on me during her sleepwalking heydays. I sense—no, I'm certain—something is wrong.

Not only that, but the music and floral smell are both gone. As I realize this, the strange bird with the gold-tipped wings makes a grand entrance. It swoops and taxis in, plopping on top of a bell tower sculpture created by a teacher. The very fact that I'm not surprised by the bird's return alarms me. It ruffles its feathers, blinks at me twice, and then sails into the air, piloting its way through the mass, tipping left and right and dodging people who don't notice the creature at all.

I rush after it.

Maybe it's because it's the last place I saw Prim, but the bird leads me back to the enchanted forest painting. I watch it circle over the art piece. It flaps like mad, raps the frame with its beak, then darts away, flitting through the auditorium doors. I have no idea what just happened.

I reach into my backpack and grip my phone in case it buzzes. A shoulder bumps hard into me, and I'm so on edge that I turn, about to lash out an expletive when my gaze lands on the canvas.

Apprehension skyrockets to distress. My watery limbs propel me forward. I stumble closer to the image of the woods. It's not possible, but there they are: brush strokes of my sister's sandals lying on the forest floor, one of them overturned as though she'd kicked them off. Or had been dragged away.

"Prim," I whisper.

How? Why? What the hell?

"It's atrocious how much you miss when you don't take a second look at things, isn't it?"

Leaning against the wall to my right is a twenty-something guy with the body of a swimmer and a face that would render me speechless if I wasn't in the middle of a Code Red panic. His copper hair, clover green irises, and pincushion dimples make him stand out like a butterfly among an anthill of bland small-towners.

"Excuse me," I say. "Have you seen a girl, thirteen years-old, looks like Alice in Wonderland?"

"Yes. And so have you."

I give him a withering look. "This isn't a joke, bucko."

He smirks and crosses his arms. "I think you know where Primrose is."

My hands ball into fists. What is that supposed to mean? Who is this guy? How does he know Prim's name?

It takes me all of two strides to knock chests with him, but I have to crane my neck to meet his amused expression. The anger in me is so inflamed it's going to leave blisters up and down my skin.

I speak between clenched teeth. "If you've touched her—"

"My, my, you have the temperament of a hornet," he quips.

"Listen asshole, I'll call the police—"

"Listen _human_, you're gorgeous, and I'm bored, but if you can't comprehend a simple hint, then your sense of imagination leaves much to be desired. I pegged you for someone who could cross over, but with that foul attitude, maybe you're not the unique breed I thought you to be."

"Speak English."

He leans so close that our noses touch. "The painting, oh precious thing."

I shake my head. "No."

"No? Why ever not?"

"It's not real," I say, yet Prim's sandals are still there when I wheel around to take another look.

The guy saunters up behind me, his breath prowling across my ear. "Hmm. Not real, eh? Because these sorts of things only happen in dreams?"

Dreams. That's where I've seen this landscape before. Only this time, everything is mutating into a nightmare.

"Ah, I see you're grasping the truth," the stranger says. "Reality has many dimensions, but not everyone can travel them. You're one of the exceptional souls. Despite your repugnant sense of reason and shallow perceptions, you seem to have retained a drop of wonder. Your sister must have something to do with that."

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, not taking my eyes off those sandals.

When he laughs, the walls of the auditorium gleam, but I'm the only one in the place who notices.

"I'm not her captor," he says. "But don't expect me to reveal their identity, either. They must do that on their own. That's how things work in my world. I'm merely a spectator who has decided to add a variable to the fun. Trust me, if you cross over, you won't be expected."

Prim is gone. She's been taken. _How_, or _where_, or by _whom_, I don't know. But this stranger does.

I face him and bury my pride. "Please. Tell me how to find her."

"And what do I get in return?" When I just stare at him, frustrated, he clarifies, "A favor for a favor."

Now, this I understand. "I'll do anything."

"Ah. So attached to one another," he says, appraising the neckline of my scoop-neck tee. "I'll think on my favor and save it for a later date. When I ask, you'll give me what I want. No resistance."

I don't have time to debate this. I nod.

Satisfied, his dimples dig into his cheeks. He swings his arm toward the painting. "Welcome to our world. And remember: Look more than once before you foolishly bypass things."

I gape. "What? Through the painting?"

"There are many doorways into the world of faeries. This is simply one of them."

"You're a _faerie_?"

His features twist with displeasure. "You make it sound like low-brow fantasy, which is degrading and insulting. Let me offer you a valuable piece of advice: Be careful how you speak about us. Use courtesy or you won't get far. Yes, I'm a faerie, and our youth are called fae. Remember that."

My hands tunnel inside my pockets. My gaze traverses the auditorium as normal families go about their normal evening looking at normal art. If I try to walk right into a painting, they'll think I'm nuts.

"Never mind them," the stranger says. "People only see as much as they want to see."

"What do I do when I get there? Where do I go? How do I survive?"

He clucks his tongue. "Too many questions. Not enough answers."

"Wait," I say, remembering something about the lore of faeries, how time passes differently between dimensions. "What happens while I'm away? Oh God, will time jump ahead here?"

If Prim and I are gone for even a day, how long will that be for our mother? Weeks? Months?

"Ugh," the stranger groans. "That myth is a human fabrication. Time is the same under every sky. Now, run along and be merry. I have other business to tamper with."

"But—"

I never get to finish my question because the hunky faerie fucker loses his patience and pushes me into the painting. And into another world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you guys so much for following and reviewing!**

* * *

_Moonlight_

I careen forward and land flat on my face. The ground is unbelievably soft, tufts of grass brushing my forearms like plumes. My senses fill with the ripest green scent I've ever inhaled. Rubbing my palm over my nose, I glance around.

I shoot to my knees and twist in all directions, my jaw dropping, my eyes lurching out of their sockets. "Oh..." I whisper.

It's like discovering color for the first time. The forest is as it looked on canvas, only more vibrant. Rays of amethyst sky shoot through the landscape, making it impossible to decipher whether its day or night. The onyx black trees with their hook-shaped stumps encircle me, emerald moss threading around the bark.

Blue bell-shaped flowers hang their heads, the petals glazed in something that makes them shimmer. I connect their scent with the one that assaulted me in the auditorium. I close my lids, wistful, as if the aroma should mean more, but I can figure out why. I want to stay here floating within this spell, to find the core of that scent and wrap my arms around it.

It takes all my willpower to open my eyes again. When I do, I locate Prim's sandals a few feet away. With a whimper, I crawl across the grass, snatch them up, and press the soles to my chest. I've been admiring the view while my sister is out here somewhere, terrified, alone, maybe hurt. This isn't a place to glorify or trust. This is a horror masquerading as a dream.

Why did I ever fantasize about the land of the faeries? Why did I once believe it was benevolent and safe? These questions make me sad. I'm debunked all over again, like I was as a child in mourning. I'm glad Sunset doesn't have to see this. He believed in figments as much as I once did, believed that some good came out of it.

But the magic of this realm is a dangerous illusion. I need to fortify myself and remember that. I'm a hunter's daughter, I know how to navigate the wild, and if anything or anyone gets in my way, I will whoop its enchanted ass.

Scrambling to my feet, I tuck Prim's sandals into my backpack, brush off my sleeves and jeans, and stand there like an idiot. My confidence lasts a millisecond. I may be an archeress, but I have no bow. I may be an outdoor girl, but this is not a typical outdoor journey.

Ahead, three paths lead in different directions. Left. Right. Center. They each look the same. Another problem is that I can't find any footprints, nor any signs of a struggle, nothing to follow. I have no clue which way to go.

When I look up, there it is. The golden-feathered bird dives toward me like a savior, lands on the center path, and stares at me. So that explains its odd metallic appearance. It's a local here. I'm not too happy about being rescued one minute into my quest, but my relief trumps my ego.

I cross my arms and joke dryly, "Come here often?"

The bird cocks its head. I grin in spite of myself. I would be more guarded around this little sidekick if it hadn't led me to the painting in the first place. Plus, I have no other choice but to trust him—I don't know why, but I'm guessing it's a "him."

"Am I going to owe you later for this, like your green-eyed neighbor?" I ask.

The bird's not interested in negotiating. It ruffles its feathers.

I point at the narrow trail in the center. "So that way? And then what? Where am I headed?"

The bird caws at me impatiently and flies away, a not-so-subtle hint that it's willing to help, but it's not going to be a nipple.

My expulsion of breath is a mixture of determination and fear. I might encounter more faeries or unrecognizable animals, any number of threats, dwarves or creepy elves. The list could cram an encyclopedia. I should consider all the things I remember about faerie myths, but that green-eyed stranger implied that humans have misconceptions about this world. So everything I assume could be totally wrong. For all I know, I could run into a flesh-eating smurf or a giant fucking Furby.

I don't see anything remotely resembling the portal I came through. I'm not sure how Prim and I will get back home, but I'll have to worry about that later. I need to head out.

The lane is compact, barely wide enough for me to stretch my arms out on either side. It leads straight ahead. The thick hulks of black trees flank me, their furry branches twisting and tangling above my head, partially blocking out the heavens, more eerie than romantic. My pace fluctuates as the atmosphere consumes my attention. As I walk, I pivot a full circle, gazing openly at my surroundings. The blue flowers carpeting the ground lift their heads like spies and splay their petals as I pass. I glower at them.

I glower at everything. This woodland is too hushed for my taste. I listen for the croak of a toad, the split of a twig, the flux of a brook, impish laughter or music. I'm met with silence.

The path is endless, with no turns or curves or forks, and it must be at least an hour of going in the same direction before I stop. Although the landscape changes subtly to show I'm actually making progress—plants that rise from the ground and coil into dexterous spirals, the canopy of branches finally separating like a curtain and revealing the rest of the amethyst sky again—I'm growing anxious. I don't feel closer to Prim. I haven't caught any physical signs that I'm going in the right direction. No tracks. None of my sister's possessions lying on the ground, like maybe her purse or a lipstick. No breadcrumbs whatsoever.

I start jogging, then running, then sprinting. I think of Prim as a child, her chin wobbling when I told her Dad was never coming home. I think of her petrified expression when she thought our sleepwalking mother left us as well. I think of Prim's slumped shoulders as she watched me grieve over Sunset and waited months for me to play with her again. I think of her here, barefooted, crestfallen, with my last words fresh in her mind.

_I'm tired of you._

After maybe twenty more minutes, I halt to catch my breath. Hopelessness digs a well into me, heating my face and pricking my throat. The path just keeps going. And it's still quiet.

And I'm starving.

And I'm frustrated.

And that bird left me.

And I refuse to be weak.

And these are not my woods.

"Arg!" I shriek. "Aaaaaah. Arrrrr! Gahhhh! Ahhhhh! Rrrraaaahhh!"

I ram my shoe into a bush, kicking up glittery clouds of whatever. I karate chop the bush over and over. Then I collapse on the forest floor and bury my head in my hands, sucking up my rage, mentoring myself to get it together. Lifting my head, I notice a vine of blackberries spilling over my shoulder, causing my stomach to rumble. I pick one of the bulbous berries and study it.

_Look more than once._

With the faerie stranger's words in my mind, I hesitate to eat it. I hold it up to the light, trace the dark ripples with my fingers, squeeze it and sniff the juice. I bite my lip, unsure how else to test it in this world, and opt to place the berry on the ground. I stand and prowl around it, examining it from all angles like a loaded weapon.

Realizing how ridiculous this is, I laugh emptily at myself. It's just a blackberry. I swipe it off the ground and pop it into my mouth, the liquid bursting like a dam across my tongue. It tastes more sour than usual. Probably the berries aren't ripe yet. They definitely wouldn't be sprouting yet in my town, not until late summer, but I bet anything can grow here no matter what the season.

My hand dives into the bush for more berries when I hear it: the flutter of leaves. Awareness shimmies up my spine. I narrow my gaze at the woods, looking for new shadows while the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I'm being watched.

I take off but force myself not speed-walk down the lane. Hauling ass might encourage whatever is pursuing me to move quicker as well, yet I make the mistake of peeking over my shoulder. Because when I turn back around, I freeze.

I'm greeted by twitching jowls. Globs of drool. A row of fangs. A rabid dog-wolf thing that bares a slight resemblance to Bonkers—but a jumbo version, far more disgusting, and with menacing yellow topaz irises—crouches in the middle of the path, seething at me. It raises its black hackles. Its protruding claws scratch the ground.

"Shit," I squeak.

My backpack contains nothing of substance. My keys aren't much of a weapon, and neither are the comb, wallet, or hoodie stuffed inside. What I wouldn't give for my bow and quiver right now. Or at the very least, a rock.

I shouldn't have thrown that megaphonic tantrum. The creature must have heard me.

"Grrrrrrrr…"

Holding up my sweaty palms, I ease my right foot backward, then the left, sneaking away from the wild animal in what feels like slow-mo. My adrenaline spikes, spanning new heights. This thing has mistaken me for dinner.

It swipes at the dead leaves on the ground, getting into position, revving up its engine.

It pounces. I run.

Vaulting off the path, I plow deep into the forest, my boots crushing the blue flowers. I hear the dog-wolf's panting snout, its paws punching the earth, shredding through vegetation to reach me. I weave around the black-hook trees, then duck behind one and press my back against it. Before I can scale the trunk or grasp something to defend myself, I blink in confusion. The forest is moving, blurring, darkening.

Then everything starts to tilt. With a cry, I slide down to the floor. I topple sideways and roll across the feathery grass, enveloped by its incredibly green scent. My tongue feels like sandpaper. My fingers skip across my mouth, which is burning up. I lick my lips and taste the blackberries.

The beast emerges. Its jewel-toned irises break through the foliage, twin discs of glinting topaz that puncture the shadows and locate me. It growls. Its rancid breath crosses the short distance, and though I can't see well, I imagine its curved incisors flashing, ready to feed.

It stalks in my direction. I shake my head, _no, no, no, no, no_.

Out of nowhere, a human-like shape leaps over me from behind. It lands on all fours, blocking me from the creature. There's a moment where nothing happens as they face off.

The animal puffs, then launches ahead. A masculine huff of annoyance jets from the human-like figure, so pronounced that I can imagine him rolling his eyes. I struggle to focus, but all I can see is a collage of fists snapping forward and claws raking the air as the two wrestle over who gets to keep me. The dog tries to maul the figure's face off, but whoever he is, he's fast. And graceful. He dances around the animal and lashes out unexpectedly.

Dizzier. I'm getting dizzier. I register the dog's squeal of defeat, its plaintive whining, and finally, its lopsided retreat.

Quick footsteps approach. A unique aroma, something sugary and painfully bittersweet, caresses me. Tears breach the corners of my eyes.

The figure swims above me, the features hazy, impossible to make out except for a nest of blond hair that defies the purple light. A soft hand cups my cheek, tilting my head, as the apparition looms closer and closer. I don't have the energy to be afraid or scream or fight. Instead, I moan as a pair of sinewy arms loop beneath my body and hoist me up.

Sagging against a firm chest, I detect a rhythm nestled close by, a thud calling out to me, chanting into my ear that it's okay to rest. I've been given proof. Whoever is carrying me has a tender heartbeat.

kpkpkpkpkp

I wake up.

But not wearily or drowsily.

My lids simply flap open like shutters letting in the sunshine.

Except the actual light is coming from a fireplace whipping heat in my direction and glinting across the fluffy rug at its foot. The crack of kindling teems with the rustle of material as fuzzy velvet tickles my cheeks. I'm cocooned in a heavenly blanket, in a heavenly bed, amidst the heavenly scent of bread.

I anchor myself on my elbows. I'm in a luxurious cottage decorated with wood furniture inlaid with different stains of bark, more rounded at the edges than boxy. Warm orange stones, massive and flat, make up the walls. Plush navy curtains hang in the rectangular windows, offering a view of the forest. An open doorway suggests a corridor leading to other rooms.

The interior reminds me of that idealistic place where fairytales are born. Or written.

An easel in the corner shows the unfinished sketch of a girl's face…my face!

I sprout up in shock and then gasp as the blanket puddles around my hips. I'm wearing my demi-cut bra and low-rise panties. That's all.

I jerk my fingers into my hair and yank on the roots, trying to get my bearings and not freak out. My backpack and clothes are gone. A nosegay of those damn blue flowers stands on the table next to me, along with an empty bread bowl that smells as though it once held stew. I swallow and taste the remnants of unknown spices. Something in the cinnamon family.

Someone has fed me. Someone undressed me and placed me in their room. I'm in someone's bed.

That someone is sleeping next to me.

I rear back, almost tumbling off the downy mattress, hands clamped over my mouth to smother a yelp. It's a boy. A boy who looks to be about my age, which must mean he's a young faerie. A fae.

His slumber is enviously serene. He's resting on his back, one arm tucked beneath his blond head, the other draped across his substantial chest. His cream fitted shirt is similar to a v-neck henley, hinting at a stack of ab muscles that would put the green-eyed goblin I met in the auditorium out of business. His torso tapers into a pair of dusky brown pants woven from a foreign material that resembles leather and hugs his thighs.

I guess I expected horns or goat limbs. Like the other stranger, this one is completely human-looking. His face makes my hands drop to my lap. This is no exaggeration. It's the kind of face that could detonate ovaries across the globe. Long lashes. A freckled nose with a diminutive bump at the tip. Pink lips perched above a robust jaw. His left ear is pierced and sports a round stud, an orange jewel with tiny flecks, maybe a piece of mineral.

I grind my teeth. I don't know why, but his appearance stirs up a cauldron's worth of hostility and resentment. Something about him taps into my memory bank, but my memory is playing hard-to-get and holding itself for ransom against me.

A drawstring pouch hangs from his hip, along with an arched sheath and knife handle poking out. He may have saved me from that beast, but what did he do to me while I was comatose? What _will_ he do to me?

I need to get the hell out of here, but I could use some protection in the woods. Biting my trembling lip, I carefully reach for the blade. I move like a huntress, diligent and quiet.

As soon as my fingers make contact with the handle, his hand locks onto mine and wrenches me up against him. My chest boxes with his. His grip is solid but not steely, just enough to restrain me, as he suspends both of my wrists over our heads.

"I wouldn't do that," he says softly. "Taking from a fae without asking first."

The way he speaks. If I didn't know better, I would think he's trying to be helpful. His gossamer voice riddles me. It's what a poem would sound like if it could speak for itself. And worse, his eyes are sapphires drilling through my gut like arrows. They steal my breath. They torment. They make me ache to the point that I want to poke them out, to blind this guy, to punish him. I'm so incensed about it that I do the moronic thing and get cheeky.

"May I have your knife?" I ask with mock sweetness. "So that I can slit your throat?"

The boy frowns, bewildered by the threat. For some reason, I feel wired to him, so unspeakably connected, that I'm positive he'd thought I was aiming to steal the pouch at his waist. Not the deadly weapon.

In no time, I'm jostled onto my back. He hovers above me, the stud in his ear flashing in the half-light, his weight crushing my breasts. I grunt, acutely aware of the flimsy lace shielding my nipples and how they graze his shirt. I fight to wedge my knee between his legs and annihilate him with a dedicated jab to the nuts, but despite his short stature, he's too heavy to overpower.

He tilts his head, studying me with rapt curiosity, engrossed in what he sees. I go still. I'm not used to any guy looking at me like this, candid and unconcerned with the vibes he's giving off. It's like he's unraveling me, searching for my truest angle. His blunt attention melts my defenses. As we hold one another's gazes, I wonder what he sees, what I want him to see, and why I even care.

"Where am I?" I demand.

"You're everywhere and nowhere," he says.

I would need the verbal equivalent of a magnifying glass to figure that one out. I'm about to protest for a better response when his knuckles steal up to sketch my temple. "You need rest, silver girl. Your fever only just broke. Your heart is still susceptible."

Fever?

The boy crawls off me. He gets comfortable at the edge of the bed as though nothing just happened and this situation is perfectly normal. Is he used to having strange, half-naked girls in his bed?

Smirking, he unties the pouch from his hip and then dangles it in my face. "Orange petals. They're hard to find amidst the blue flowers. That's what I thought you were after when you fondled me. They're the antidote."

Antidote?

"For the nightlock you ate," he explains.

Nightlock? What...does he mean the blackberries?

"They weren't blackberries," he says. "That's just what you wanted to see."

Great. The copper-haired stranger had warned me to look twice at things, but I hadn't expected my own consciousness to be competing against me. I wiggle upright, covering myself with the velvet blanket, which is the same celestial color as the boy's eyes.

"The berries were poisonous?" I ask.

The boy nods.

"That's why I collapsed. They made me sick."

"No, not sick. You were dying."

I don't have to look in a mirror to know that the blood has drained from my face. I have no words. I almost died, almost failed my sister.

"I must apologize on behalf of your more animated predator," the blond boy says. "He gets carried away whenever a new human arrives. I tried to reason with him, that he'd had enough fun with you, but he was being stubborn."

I hadn't seen him reasoning with that dog-wolf. Of course, I'd been in the middle of croaking from a berry that touts the same name as my nail polish. I'm sure I missed some details while I was busy kicking the bucket.

My resistance to this fae teeters on the brink. Maybe he can help me. I could use the assistance of someone who knows his way around, but my mind still weighs the facts.

Pros:

1. He saved me from that hellhound.

2. He nursed me back to health.

3. He's been given plenty of time to hurt me yet hasn't, at least not that I can tell.

Cons:

1. Aren't faeries, young and old, supposed to be tricksters? For all I know, that gold-winged bird might have intentionally won my trust only to serve me up on a platter to that dog-wolf. Who says this boy is any different? He could be faking his kindness for a more sinister purpose.

2. He's faster than me and has a knife. If he's deviant and I attempt to run, he'll catch me.

3. Although my intuition tells me he didn't try any hanky-panky, I'm still clad only in my knickers because of him. And the night is young.

"So just humor me for a minute," I begin.

"Why only a minute?" the boy teases.

"What if I said I wanted to leave?"

"Am I that boring?"

"Again. What if I said I _wanted to leave_?"

"I'd say, by all means, you can. Once you've slept more."

"What if I'm not tired?"

"You have nothing to fear. I won't harm you," he murmurs. "I give you my word."

I want to believe him. I do. An invisible wire knotted between us is coaxing me in that direction. Not to mention that I technically don't feel scared of him, I'm not shaking or sweating, and I haven't had a problem talking back.

The boy stands, migrates to the fireplace, kneels in his fae-grade leather pants, and tosses more logs into the mouth of the hearth. I gawk. His ass is incredible. It's full, shapely, and sleek as a plum.

_That is the sexiest ass I've ever seen. I want to buy it presents._

He goes unnaturally still. Slowly, his head sweeps over his shoulder. He levels me with penetrating stare, his eyebrow raised in amusement.

I scowl and snap, "What?" Because it's not like I said it out loud.

I have no sane excuse for where my thoughts just went. I have bigger problems, crucial things to deal with. I have more questions.

"Your silence is a deep pond, silver girl. There must be something else you want to know," he says, twisting around and sitting on the floor. He leans back on his palms, stretches his legs out in front of him, and crosses them at the ankles. The blaze outlines the right side of his body.

"Who are you?" I ask. "Where are we? Why did you help me? Why did you draw me?"

He grins like a sweet fool. "Queer choice of fourth question."

"How long have I been knocked out?" I ask, louder than necessary. "What time of day is it? Why were you sleeping next to me? Why do you call me silver girl? Why did you take off my clothes, and where the hell are they?"

"Hmm." He taps his chin. "Is that all?"

"Yes," I snarl.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"Questions are amazing things, aren't they?" The boy leans forward. "I'm a guardian of the forest. We're in my home. I helped you because you needed helping. I drew you because you're striking, and you remind me of someone...at least I _think_ you remind me of someone."

His smile turns somber as he continues. "The antidote works swiftly, but you've still been ill for a full day. It's approaching dusk. In your delirium, you asked me to stay by your side, so I did. Until you give me your name, I'll call you what I want, and my choice is to praise your eyes. They're the silver of mist, neither clear nor blind. You were sweating in your clothes, so I cleaned them. And they're on your lap..." he trails off, suddenly just as bothered as I am.

Instantly, yes, my jeans and t-shirt are neatly folded on my lap and smelling of mint. My backpack and boots are now on the floor, too, and I'm reeling from the knowledge that I've been delayed an entire day! But instead of throwing on my clothes as fast as possible, I grip the blanket. His speech churns in my head.

We watch each other, transfixed. Within that fleeting exchange, I experience déjà vu. It's like we've done this before, met this way before.

Which isn't possible.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sunset_

I don't remember who I was before they took me. I know the story only as they've told it to me. That I was once a human child who came from a small human town. That I was an unwanted orphan, with horrible relations of non-blood who used me as a slave. And that, in stealing me away, the faeries had done me a favor.

Also, that I was never missed.

I have trouble believing the last claim. But I will get to that later.

No one but unique humans, children or adults truly connected to imagination, have the ability to cross into this world. Yet of those unique beings, it's only the desired ones—talented and romantic—who are snared like prey. The rest of them stumble through the portals by accident. It doesn't happen often, but it's not unheard of.

I am one of the desired. They say it happened when I was ten years old. The faeries wanted my words, my love of games, art, and song. I was an attractive child to them, one whose heart bore the skill of make-believe. And so they called to me. They'd been trying for a while, but it was difficult. I was rarely alone. I was always with a girl. A girl who had the luster to cross over but whom they didn't want.

Eventually, they got me. As the tale goes, I was in the woods searching for someone. I tripped over a rock and twisted my ankle when their enchanted music curled its finger and beckoned me. It was a duo melody of fiddle and flute, and I limped toward it willingly, forgetting the person whom I'd been pursuing.

I realized soon after what had happened, once I'd stepped over a split ash tree and passed into a dimension capped with purple sky and puzzling folk. I'd been taken by a group of faeries. Supposedly, I'd cried. I put up a fight. I howled that I wanted to go home.

And though it was an ethereal group restraining me—beautiful females called nymphs—there was one leader in particular who had orchestrated my abduction. That leader also happened to be the only male in the pack. He soothed me with a gift: any treat I wanted.

"What would you like?" my captor asked.

"Raisin bread," I'd whimpered.

Suddenly, the warm roll was in my hand. When I had eaten and calmed down, my captor's next question was about my name.

"I'm Peeta Mellark."

"You don't go by Sunset?"

I shook my head. "That's what my friend calls me. But it's not my name."

Names are sacred to faeries. They had approved of the name Peeta and wanted to keep it for me. But in order to do so, they had to leave another name behind in the human world. They chose Sunset. So that's apparently what my hometown remembers, or _remembered_, me being called.

As with all abductions, my disappearance was made to look like a death. My captors left behind a bloodied sweater, providing my former realm with closure. And me with an official new home.

Helpless and forlorn, I let them distract me with the pleasures of this world. Playgrounds. Animals. Endless supplies of paint and brushes. As time went by, my memory of the past faded, my history dissolved until it mirrored a dream. I became one of them. I became a fae.

But I felt missed nonetheless. Someone missed me. The girl. The one who'd been my friend.

She was the singular detail that encompassed my mind, ceased to abandon me, relentlessly bruising my soul. I had no inkling of how we met, or how we lived, or how we spent our time. But she pined for me. I was sure of it. The rope of mourning knotted around my ankle, connecting her existence to mine. I felt her grief and adoration. I hoped that someday she'd follow the invisible rope, stumble across an enchanted portal, and find me.

She never did, but she is the main reason I don't doubt that I was ever human. To this day, I have visions of sable-colored braided hair, but a thousand drawings have failed to conjure the rest of her.

I remember the name Moonlight. I think I used to call her that, the way she called me Sunset.

This is not something that happens to faeries. It's unheard of for us to recall anything from our pasts. I've often thought my mind was playing tricks on me, but my intuition has won out. The only explanation is that our bond is unusually strong, it transcends worlds, too special to fade completely. It's a highly idealistic notion, but I don't care. I see no reason to be cynical.

It's the emotions that ambush me most of all. The hints of kinship, flashes of giddiness and play, undercurrents of devotion that leave me ragged and aching in the middle of the night.

I must have loved her a lot.

Over the years, this knowledge has turned my heart into a well. The more I yearn to recall her, the more her mystery consumes me, the more caged I feel in this forest. As it is, I've never truly embraced who I am. Not with this fragile lifeline tethered to me. I'm split between this dimension and the solitary haunts of a girl who has refused to let me go.

Secretly, my wish is to return. It's been so long. I'm seventeen now. Yet I believe she still waits for me in her world, as I have waited for her in mine.

But my wish is complicated. Once a person enters this woodland, they cannot go back. Their fate is to become a magical being. To live here. And well, most are happy once they forget who they used to be.

We live for a very, very long time but aren't immortal. Nor can we breed. That's why we need to steal fanciful humans and turn them into one of us: to maintain our existence, while in turn, we maintain the pulse of imagination for both realms. We need one another in that sense. It's a life cycle. No ending. No real beginning. Thus, the Faerie Court is not in favor of condensing their collection of imports, no matter if the poor beings just stumble here on their own or are lured by us.

However, there is one exception to these rules. There is one way that a fae or faerie might have a chance of returning to their birth home. It requires a task that I've spent my life avoiding out of guilt...until yesterday.

I had sensed the opportunity close by, revealing itself unexpectedly. Once faced with it, I gave in to the temptation. I did what was required, and rather swiftly I might add, without giving myself time to second guess my actions.

Since then, I've been waiting on the Faerie Court's decision whether to grant me permission to leave. To go back to the place I was born. To learn who I really am. To see where I really come from. To find my true self. To find her.

And since then, I've also been the caretaker for a new human. The situation presented itself when I'd ventured into the wild to quell my anxiety over the Court deliberating my case. Hob Forest, with its black-hooked trees and blue buds, is the nook where every human enters our dimension. As a guardian of the woods, I live within its borders.

I had settled in my favorite glen, not far from my cottage, and was resting on my back, staring at the sky when I heard her.

I trailed the grating sounds of feminine fury, peeked over a hedge, and found its origin. She had her back to me and was attacking a bush that I should have recognized as nightlock territory—I blame my preoccupation with her temper for the oversight. Since she was alone, I assumed she wasn't a "desired" soul but rather one of the less common drifters who'd accidentally crossed through a portal.

New humans usually arrive bewildered and irate, unaware that our woodland paths lead to oblivion until the humans stop rationalizing and start believing otherwise. But her outrage was particularly intense. I tilted my head, curious. The possibility of seeing her face intrigued me, but the intrigue did not last. For the first time, I was in no mood to tame a human wanderer, reassure them, and show them around. Her evident fit told me she would be difficult to appease anyway. Not even the chance to discover her features was worth my receding patience.

I'd turned away, shaking my head, deciding to let another forest guardian come upon her and perform the welcome.

Then I heard growling. And I knew exactly where it came from. And to whom those growls were directed.

I made it just in time. That stubborn dog!

I smelled the poison on her lips, the melancholy and courage on her skin. I felt her heartbeat against mine as I carried her to my house. I undressed her. I fed her the nightlock antidote. I gazed upon her for hours. I touched her hair.

She mumbled, "Stay with me."

No one has ever needed me like that, except for the girl of my dreams. The one I think I called Moonlight. So I pretended both females were one and the same. It was easy to do right up until the moment the human awoke and sought my dagger.

Sitting across from her now, I'm disturbed. Our question-and-answer session seems familiar, somehow wrapped in an intimacy I can't fathom. Based on her unsteady gaze, it appears I'm not the only one who draws this conclusion. The girl twists a dark lock around her finger. My eyes are attentive to the movement.

I lean forward. "I feel like this has happened before. This exchange between us."

The girl twitches, then glances down and mumbles, "I guess."

"You guess," I repeat, inspiring her to look at me again.

"Yeah," she says, her brows knocking together. "I guess. You have a problem with guessing?"

"I'm a fae. I have no problem with that. As I said before, questions are amazing things. As are answers, many of which you've required of me this evening. Are you denying me the same right?"

"Do whatever you want."

"That's a bold gesture to offer me."

We pause. Did I really say that to her? I would call it payback for her secretly wicked appraisal of my backside earlier, as it nearly caused me to swallow my tongue. However, she hadn't been intentionally provoking me with her thoughts.

It's not her fault that I can read minds.

When we become enchanted beings, each of us develops a power. Access to privacy is mine.

As sarcastic and vocal as she is, she's not accustomed to bluntness and doesn't like the detour we've taken. Although from where I sit, this discussion had no direction to begin with.

In response to my naughty comment, she sinks under the covers and haphazardly wrestles into her clothes. Her lack of grace disturbs the blankets, feet and elbows kicking at them. It's a funny sight. I chuckle to myself and imagine her human legs and hips tunneling into her human jeans. Clearly, she's not interested in my recommendation that she sleep off the rest of the nightlock's lingering effects. Stubbornness must be a significant part of her personality.

Which also must be why she's determined not to address the familiarity of our conversation. I've hit a nerve. And it's somehow related to her past, but I can't read in what way. Those details about her are shadowed from me, which means she has a strong will.

When she pops back up, she's flushed. She blows the bangs off her forehead. I admire the plump inflation of her lower lip when she does it.

I grin. "Feel better?"

"Think you're a wise-guy, huh?"

"I've been called such."

"You can't tease me into liking you."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't. Not with riddles and I-think-we've-done-this-before and everywhere-and-nowhere mellarky. How am I supposed to take you seriously or trust you?"

"When you asked me where we were and I said, 'everywhere and nowhere,' I hadn't been teasing. Although I've always enjoyed the art of teasing, and with you it's even more fun, my answer was the absolute truth. You and I are everywhere and nowhere." I jab a finger between us. "And we're together."

They're barely visible, but a flicker of intrigue and even a dash of levity thaw her features. Then they're gone, replaced by frustration. "You're weird."

"I'm honest."

"You always say exactly what you think?"

"I see no reason to be indirect. Plenty of my kind does that merely for the sake of being mysterious. You do realize you're changing the subject, right? About the odd cognizance of our exchange? I know it's not just me."

She crosses her arms. "It doesn't matter if the conversation felt familiar. It doesn't mean anything."

"If that's the case, why are you so annoyed?"

"I can't deal with this crap right now, okay? I can't! Drop it! It's not important!"

I'm not stunned by this earsplitting downpour. She's just been ripped from her world. Yet I notice her fingers shaking in turmoil and realize she's upset on more distinct level.

Beyond rescuing her, I haven't been very accommodating. Earlier, she'd crawled over me to grab my knife, but it was for self-defensive purposes. She's scared and confused, and I haven't bothered to ask her about her own life or how she's feeling. I've forgotten myself in her presence. I've been neglecting my duties because she has tipped me off balance.

She flinches when I rise. She wiggles backward on the bed when I sit beside her. She gapes when I cup her face.

But she doesn't retreat.

My fair skin eclipses the spheres of her olive cheeks. My voice simmers. "I know you're frightened in this strange place, but I will do my best to ease that if you allow it. We can be friends. All you need to do is look closer. Take a second look."

The girl registers my words. She turns them over in her mind. Her face is rosy and fits nicely in my hands.

She holds the blanket closer to her chest while the straps of her intimate attire loop over her shoulders like a hint. I won't lie. I peeked while I undressed her. It was hard not to. The shapes of her breasts are lovely and had caused me to gulp numerous times.

I hear her reaction to me.

_His touch feels impossibly good. I like it. _

_It's as glorious as his ass._

My lips slant into a coy grin. I shouldn't enjoy probing her thoughts this much. It's unfair.

The fire warms us. The purple light from the sky floats through the windows and merges with the orange cast on the walls. This would be a lovely moment to freeze and live in. The moment when strangers become something more.

She straightens, pulls away, and offers me her hand. "I'm Katniss."

My palm clasps hers. "My name is Peeta."

She doesn't waste time. "Okay. I need your help. I'm on a mission. I grew up near the woods and can take on animals, but not without a weapon and not when they're as big as that dog-wolf. I don't know this place, but you do."

"That dog-wolf, as you put, wasn't as fearsome as you think."

"I wish we could do an instant-replay so you could see how things were from my point-of-view."

"Indeed? I would like that. I'm curious about the impression I made and what you saw in me."

"Honestly, by the time you came along, I wasn't seeing much. My brain was floating blimp-like toward the pearly gates. But…now that you mentioned it, my hearing wasn't as bad as my vision. When you got done wrestling with it, that hound _did_ make this mopey, gurgled whine. More pathetic than predatory. Kind of like a Wookie."

I squint. "A what?"

"Not important."

"That's a relief. I understood only half of what you said."

She grumbles, mostly at herself. "The other half was pointless, too."

"I wouldn't say that. You spoke. If anything, I enjoy hearing your beautiful voice."

She scowls, yet a blush tinges her throat. I wonder if there's a boy back home that she misses.

"I'm charmed by how terribly you take compliments," I say. "Most fae girls suck them up through a straw."

"I'm no fae girl. We need to refocus."

"We? I'm perfectly content."

"Like I said, I need your help. I'll give you whatever favor you want. I know you people like that."

"Yes, but I'm not a greedy fae."

Remembering what I did yesterday, I'm not sure that's true. Guilt nestles in my chest, but I push it aside.

"I don't require a favor, Katniss. I'm a guardian of the forest. I'm here to assist you. Besides, you couldn't give me what I want most anyway."

My forwardness mystifies her, so I explain, "The only thing I want to be is free of this place." And then I joke wryly, "You can't give me that, can you?"

"Free of what place? Your home? Are you under fae house arrest or something?"

I snicker at her choice of words. "I'm free to go wherever I want, except to the human realm where I was born."

"You're from my world?"

"We're all originally from your world."

Her eyes widen and spark with life as she considers this fact. She's thinking about something having to do with her past, but once again, I cannot read specifically what it is. It reaffirms my suspicion that her history is blurred from me. But it's not merely because she has a strong will. I sense that her wounds are too deep and self-absorbed for me to penetrate.

Katniss shakes off whatever she'd been debating, the gleam in those silver eyes dulling. I have an intense urge to console her but don't know how.

She refocuses. "I heard about faerie abductions, but I thought most of you were born here."

I shrug. "I don't remember that time, except..." I hold back the rest, noting how easy it would have been to mention Moonlight to her. But that part of my soul is not for consumption. "Anyway, I'm now one of them, but I long to go back."

"So you're stuck in this place?" she asks. "That doesn't make sense. I met one of you in my town, like, two seconds before I got here."

"And that lucky one would be...?"

"Our chat didn't go as far as names, but he had a cocksure attitude and stupidly green eyes. Like construction paper."

"That would be Finnick," I sigh.

"Well, that asshole was—sorry, is he a friend of yours?"

In the past, I would have said yes. These days, the answer to that is more complicated.

"He has access to both realms," I say. "Only six faeries have that power. He's among them."

"What makes him so special?"

I deliberately stay quiet. Katniss doesn't probe. She shuffles closer, and I'm pleased that she's grown more relaxed with me, and that she brings her scent—apples and burned wood—with her.

"Listen," she says. "I know you brought me back from the dead, and I'm grateful, but I can't spare another second resting. I can't go back home until you help me."

She doesn't yet know that going home isn't an option for her anymore. I lower my head and keep my body language neutral.

"I mean, that faerie who can cross over? He's not a complete asshole. He's more like two-thirds asshole, one-third water. He did show me the way through the painting—"

My head snaps up. "Painting?"

"Yeah, the portal. Or one of them. He said you have many."

This is true, but only one of the portals is a painting. The one I fabricated. The fireplace hisses, warning me to tread with caution. I grasp what's happening. And it's about to destroy me and this little scene between us that I'd hoped to freeze.

"You said you met Finnick before coming here? And that he _showed you the way_ through the paining?" I ask carefully.

"Actually, he pushed me. But let me start at the beginning. So I was in this art exhibit with my little sister, Prim."

My heart stops.

Prim. Primrose. The blond human that arrived yesterday.

"And while we were there, she and I had..." Katniss's voice hitches, and then the downpour begins anew, a mad rush to reach the finish line. "We had a fight. And then she disappeared and I met Finnick and he said that she'd been taken and that I had to go through the portal if I wanted her back and then the dog chased me off the trail and now I have no clue where to begin. Please, help me."

My heartbeat picks up again, but it's etched in despair. This girl, Katniss, is the sister of Primrose. She wants her back. She's asking for my help.

I'd assumed Katniss was just another straggler from the human world. When the truth is, Finnick has brought her here on purpose, to challenge me, to challenge my way home. We used to be friends, he knows I can read minds, and he's learned to shadow his thoughts from me. It's the only reason I didn't forsee this turn of events. Damn him!

"Please, Peeta." She grips my hand, mistaking my silence for indecision. "Please help me. I need you. I have to find her...I...I can't lose her, too."

Too? Has she lost others before?

Her feeble words and liquid eyes shatter me. I have to resist. I've made a grave mistake befriending her. If she's the sister, and Finnick has done what I suspect he's done, that means the Faerie Court knows she's here.

Yes, they do. Because now I hear the horse hooves approaching outside. The animals are galloping across the woods, their weight stomping into the earth and shaking the cottage. Katniss gasps. I vault off the bed, stride to the window, and rip aside the curtain just as the Court's minions break through the undergrowth and plow toward my house.

Goddammit Finnick! Why? Why would he do this? Katniss is innocent. If he wanted to challenge me, he could have left her out of it. Is he this brutal?

Katniss bounds out of the covers, barefoot and pretty. And my adversary.

"Who is that?" she asks, meeting me at the sill and noting my frenzied expression. "What the hell—"

I grab her arm, fixing to hide her, but think better of it. It would be pointless to stash her away, much less attempt to escape and dispatch her somewhere far. They would easily retrieve her.

"It's too late," I growl to myself.

"Too late for what?"

"To conceal you. They're here."

"Who?"

"Be polite. The Faerie Court doesn't take kindly to insolence."

"Like royalty?" Her expression is hopeful. "If they rule this place, they've got to know who has Prim. Or...are they dangerous? Do you think _they_ have her?"

"Oh, they have her. But they're not the ones who took her in the first place."

She steps back, recoils from me, narrowing her eyes. Her expression testifies that she's putting the pieces together. That I know what's happened to Prim. I know and don't want to tell her.

"Katniss, listen—"

She waves me off. "I know that Finnick mentioned Prim's captor has to reveal themselves on their own, as some kind of faerie rule. But can't you make an exception and just tell me? Please."

I resist the urge to smash something. There is no such rule. Finnick was simply playing with Katniss. He could have told her who the captor was, but he wanted her to find out the truth from me. Being a guardian of the forest, he knew I would likely cross paths with her. He wanted me to have to tell her face-to-face.

"Peeta, answer me. Who took my sister?" When I don't respond, she sucks in a deep breath, presumably to steel herself. "Who?" she demands.

I glare out the window again, then face her fully, my expression pinning her to the floor. "I did."


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi! I know this is early, but a couple of upcoming posts will be unpredictable. That said, the next chapter will be a bit delayed, so please bear with me. However, I can officially say this: Fae will be a total of 15 chapters, and I'm in the process of writing the final chapter now ;)**

**This next plot twist is inspired by the 80s film, _Labyrinth_. Hope you like it!**

* * *

_Sunset_

Turmoil. Betrayal. Rage. This is the order in which Katniss's emotions rise like mountains across the olive plains of her face. I'm stunned by how much it hurts me to look upon her this way and know I deserve it, the splinter of trust we'd built gone, replaced by deception and heat. So much heat brimming from her. It scorches me.

Technically, she is unarmed. I'm the one with the dagger. But I'd underestimated the damage a set of polished, feminine, indigo-painted nails could do.

She attacks, her fingers aimed at my face. She swipes at me, managing to rake my throat even as I try to restrain her.

"You lying fuck!" she roars. "Where's my sister? What did you do to her?"

She lunges for my knife. I block the attempt and shift her against the wall. My hands shackle her arms. "Stop," I shout. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant to—"

"The hell you didn't!"

"She's safe."

Katniss stiffens, waiting for more information. She's prepared to doubt every word. She won't understand my reasons. Inexplicably, this makes me feel defensive.

"I lured and took her to the Faerie Court. Most likely, they're doting on her now. But I didn't harm her," I say. "I swear to you, I would never do that."

She laughs bitterly.

I check the window. "Our escorts are waiting outside, but they're not patient creatures. They'll barrel down the door if we delay much longer. You want to see Primrose again? Then pull yourself together and listen to me. The Court is expecting us."

Katniss clenches her teeth and nods. I let her go.

She wrenches away from me and issues a warning. "Never say Prim's name to me again."

With that, she retrieves her boots from the floor and slips them on, snatches her bag, and marches beside me as I lead her through the house. Once we're outside, her eyes trace the outline of my ivy-laced cottage. Then those eyes fasten onto a pair of statuesque dark brown steeds poised at the end of the walkway. They tower over us. Vapors pump from their snouts as their hairy hooves swipe the grass.

I step toward one of the colossal horses, reach out, and press my palm to its throat.

_What took you so long?_ The animal complains.

_Don't lecture me_, I communicate silently.

_Having too much fun with her?_

_Hardly._

Our animals lure other animals from the human world, too. It's the same cycle. Sometimes the animals mutate, like the obstinate dog that cornered Katniss and these giant steeds.

Though, I should be clear. I'm a mind-reader, but I'm not telepathic. The only exception is my ability to converse with animals. However, that isn't exclusive as all faeries can do this.

"Clydesdales?" Katniss asks in an empty voice.

"Not exactly," I answer.

I know enough about her world to recognize the breed of horse she'd mistaken the Court's minions for. Before they lose their memory, I tend to pepper human arrivals with questions about their homes. I'm an avid listener.

In practiced synchronicity, the horses kneel. Katniss frowns at them.

"They want us to get on," I explain and demonstrate by straddling the animal I'd been speaking with.

Reluctantly, she swings her legs over the other horse and yelps when it rises. I doubt she's ever mounted a creature at this height.

We take off at a uniform trot. I remember the blond sister gawking at me when she first entered the forest, me asking what her name was, her giving it to me and then promptly fainting. I remember carting her unconscious body to the Court, offering her to them, and then leaving without a backward glance, unable to witness the aftereffects of my grim deed.

Now, I'm coming face-to-face with my choices. I want to finally disappear from this world. I want to leave here and find the girl with the braid. She needs me. I just know she does, and there are few things I wouldn't do for her, few lines I wouldn't cross for this love.

But is my wish so great, so dear to me, that I could stand the sacrifice of these two girls in exchange? Is it worth it?

Well, I should have thought about that beforehand. This is all my fault. It's my fault for having a weak heart. Back in the cottage, I'd considered Finnick brutal for sending Katniss here, yet I am the worst of hypocrites. Aren't I equally as wicked for taking Primrose in the first place?

True, if I'd thought she would be hurt in any way, I wouldn't have done it. I knew the Court would treat her well. They're prideful and care about their reputations as monarchs, so I knew they would pamper their human guest and show off the majesty of this world. I also knew that once Primrose became a fae, she'd lose her memory, thus sealing the emotional wound. In this way, ignorance is indeed bliss.

Of course, none of this makes me feel better. None of this is a suitable excuse for what I've done.

The ride is quiet aside from our escorts' panting breaths. It's nighttime now. Katniss marvels at the sky, dark as a violet, the constellations popping across the panorama. Another human once told me the stars burn much closer to the land here. They swim so close, nearly as pluckable as floating petals.

Would Katniss agree with this observation?

As we leave Hob Forest behind and travel through a landscape of oak trees, her attention shifts to the white dots of light swimming through the branches. One of them approaches, bent on sniffing the wood-and-apple scent of Katniss's hair. She lifts a finger, pokes the little globe, and its crescendo of giggles startles her. The light fizzles away happily.

"They're ticklish," I say, daring to smile.

Katniss stabs me with a look etched in frost. Her resolve enhances her even more, depressing me in the process, because I think we could have been good friends.

_She's feisty_, my horse remarks.

_She's mad at me_, I respond.

_You fancy her. _

_Mind you own business!_

My horse whinnies. My circumstance is just so hysterical.

I yank on the reigns to shut him up.

We reach Seam Lake, a sparkling pool that has no bottom. We dismount and leave the steeds behind, approaching a tear-shaped boat at the lip of the water. I step in and then offer Katniss my hand. She ignores me and hops onto the vessel without my help.

The horses swap a jeering laugh at my expense. I sigh.

I hear Katniss pondering why there's no rower and then resuming the more applicable task of rating, on a scale from one to one-hundred, how much of a _fae prick_ I am. The boat skates over the lake. The glossy, placid surface reflects her profile and the slender thumbs hooked into her belt pockets. Seeing her at this angle reminds me of the sketch of her I tried to master.

On the opposite side, the pool tapers into a canal bordered by a staff of shower trees. They spike from the water and raise their arms above us, tails of clustered yellow flowers dangling from the boughs. Always reaching down but never making contact. Never landing.

At the end of the canal, the vessel docks us in front of a veranda and a squat hill embedded with mossy steps. On either side leading up, fountains perch on varying levels, weeping droplets into the air. Stretched across the veranda, and grumpily chewing on its paw, is Buttercup.

I smirk. The golden feline was probably still sleeping before Katniss and I were summoned. He's not in the mood for a conference, but he has no choice.

Buttercup scouts us emerging from the boat and sits upright, inflating his furry chest and adjusting his posture to better advantage. He scrutinizes Katniss. She scrutinizes back. According to her thoughts, he's the spitting image of her sister's old stuffed-cat.

He gives me a judgmental look. I cross my eyes at him. Displeased, he saunters away, ears perked, shoulders revolving in tandem.

We follow him up the mossy stairs, which flatten out at the summit, culminating in a garden that stops Katniss short. Scattered beneath the violet sky is a lawn checkered in different shades of green, with narrow trails winding around yellow and lavender bushes of sundry heights, each sculptured to resemble a flower bursting to life from its stem.

Katniss floats ahead of Buttercup and me. I know these sights as I know my own reflection, yet I begin to see them through her eyes, taking in the details as if for the first time. She shrinks beneath a bush shaped like a water lily, longing to curl up there and rest, pretending that no one will find her. There's someone she wants to share this fantasy of hers with, but I can't access who it is.

Still, I understand this desire to share something magical with another. I wish we could fulfill it for each other.

In this moment, Katniss is a sad little girl. I'm simply a boy watching her.

"Well, don't just stand there. Come here, children," a voice shimmers from the garden's center.

They sit in a semi-circle, their thrones elaborately twisted from bark. The Faerie Court, also known as the Royal Six. The only souls with the ability to roam freely between Katniss's world and this one. Their sudden appearance catches her off guard as they introduce themselves.

Effie is pretentious and looks to be made of porcelain, from her incandescent complexion, to the pearly locks whipped up like cream over her head, to the waves of her ivory gown. To contrast this, she wears a lot of pink on her face. Her single power is vitality, for she has more energy than anyone here, she never sleeps, and therefore she reigns over majority of the Court's dealings.

Haymitch is all crevices and cracks. His stringy hair droops over his forehead and conceals majority of his grimace. His attitude may as well have been welded with a torch, bent from hard material. I've never seen it firsthand, but it's well-known that his power is survival. The man knows to stay alive in perilous circumstances.

Cinna and Rue both have dark skin and almond-shaped eyes. But Cinna is serene and neutral, possessing a special ability to design things of beauty with incredible speed, using materials only he can produce. Rumor has it, he created the new wing in the Court's palace in a matter of days.

Rue is pert and has trouble sitting still. It's no wonder since her skill is agility. She can move more nimbly than any faerie, whether dancing or skipping between trees, and she always lands on her feet. She's young, a fae like me, but her gift has made her the newest appointed member of the Faerie Court.

Katniss's private astonishment rings loud and clear the minute she identifies the next member of the Court.

_Seriously? A cat?_

I stifle a laugh as Buttercup hops onto his seat and proceeds to mine his claws into it. Yes, a cat. But a shrewd one, not a creature to be taken for granted. His power has to do with neutrality, basically a knack for detachment and perceiving others from the most objective viewpoint. It makes him a valuable judge.

Speaking of shrewd, Finnick reclines sideways across his chair, one leg draped over the arm. Of all cunning faeries in our world, he is the greatest of tricksters. No one can outwit him. And right now, this fact worries me.

"Nice to see you again, precious thing," he coos at Katniss.

To her credit, she adjusts her backpack and turns up her chin. She's surprised that everyone looks _normal. _Like normal humans and a normal cat. She'd been expecting different breeds of faeries, like satyrs or centaurs. Talk about imagination, this is a pleasant notion that many humans have. Unfortunately, it's false. Other than the ticklish white lights, who are created from the stars, we all resemble the inhabitants of Katniss's world.

"Ah, Peeta," Effie chirps. "It seems you've brought us _two_ human treats instead of one. How generous of you. Let's have a look. Indulge me, girl."

Katniss approaches the semi-circle. "My name is Katniss Everdeen. Peeta said you have my sister, Prim."

Effie twirls her needle-thin finger. "Turn around for us, Katniss Everdeen."

"What for?"

"Do as you're told."

"No."

Effie's irises blacken to coal. Haymitch barks with laughter.

Dammit. Katniss is not doing anyone favors by being stubborn.

I waltz up behind her and whisper, "Obey."

My words communicate the urgency, reminding her that these people have what she wants. She grinds her incisors and spins slowly. Effie is mildly satisfied. Finnick balances his stubbled chin in his palm, smugly enjoying the view. I lance him with a glare.

Katniss is festering inside, but she remembers my advice about being polite. "I need to see Prim. I need to know she's okay. Erm...please."

"Sorry, sweetheart," Haymitch says, shaking his head. "Not possible. Until her fate is decided, none but the Court may see her."

"But I said please."

He applauds. "Yes, you did. Congratulations."

"That's funny," I scoff. "Only not to her."

"Oh come, boy. What's a human worth that has no sense of humor?"

Katniss crosses her arms, her voice as dry as a twig. "I'm laughing on the inside."

No, she isn't. Neither am I.

"Primrose is perfectly fine," Cinna assures her. "She's been given a comfortable suite and has been told of your arrival. She's our guest until this ordeal is over."

"I've visited with her many times already," Rue says. "We drink peach nectar together and keep each other company."

"Do you like peaches, Katniss?" Finnick flirts.

I roll my eyes. Suave bastard.

"Buttercup joins us, too," Rue continues.

The cat meows.

"What do you mean you only tag along for the refreshments?" Rue asks. "You know that's a lie."

"You and Prim could be doing jello shots for all I care," Katniss vents. "What matters to me is seeing her. What do you people want? How do I get her back?"

"The right questions need to be asked in the right order," Finnick says, nodding toward me. "Start with our Peeta and why he took your lovely sibling."

I stride as close to him as I can get without insulting the Court. I hold his gaze successfully. I don't look away.

"Oh, for root's sake! I'll do it," Haymitch spits out. "Peeta wishes to return to the human world. His only chance of that was to compel and steal another human. A normal faerie practice, except _this _particular human had to match him _perfectly_ in spirit and soul. If he could find such a human, it enabled him to swap places with them. That was the difficult part.

"Then what do you know? After all these years, Peeta sensed the presence of someone who matched him: your sister, standing in some random art exhibit in your world, near one of the doorways to our realm. The doorways are pockets of air. In those pockets, we create physical portals for humans to travel through. It's also the vessel through which we call out to humans in the first place, using faerie music and floral scents. And believe me, those sensations stretch far. In any case, Peeta created a portal—a painting—and now Primrose is here. And so are you, sweetheart. End of story."

He collapses in his chair, winded from exceeding his customary vow of grumpy silence.

I cast my eyes down, but that doesn't stop my cheeks from tinting. I feel foolish. I've traded Katniss's certainty of home for my meager possibility of home. Home and love. At this point, if I stop believing the girl with the braid is waiting for me, then I have no worthy fight here.

Katniss's silver gaze dissects every inch of me. "There's no way Prim has anything in common with…with _him_."

"Oh, quite the contrary," Cinna argues. "They're both very similar. Take a second look."

"No, thanks. Once was enough."

"No, it wasn't," I snap.

"Yeah, it was," she snaps back.

"No. It. Wasn't!"

"Yeah. It. Was!"

"You're misunderstanding my motivation!"

"You're underestimating my right hook!"

We meet in the middle, noses tapping. We yell over each other.

A sharp double-clap tames us.

"Enough!" Effie squawks, rearranging her gown as if our argument has wrinkled it. "Peeta Mellark, as a fae, you know better. Katniss Everdeen, as a human, you don't. So let this be a lesson. Dignity in the Court."

I bow. "My apologies."

Honestly, I'm shocked by what just happened. I've never lost my temper before. Katniss isn't the one I should be fuming at, yet I can't help myself with her. She provokes me. I'm mad that she won't give me a chance to defend myself. I'm mad that I care so much.

"Okay, so he took her," Katniss says. "Why did he give her to you?"

"Peeta's return to the human world depends on our decision whether Primrose is an acceptable trade," Rue explains.

"And what would happen if you decided she wasn't a perfect match to him?"

"She would still remain here to become a fae. It's the rule. The only difference is whether Peeta would be freed or not. We were supposed to convene about it, but then you arrived."

"An interesting twist in the game," Finnick says.

I growl, "Why did you lure Katniss here when you knew she was the sister?"

"Why not? She promised me a favor, she's pretty, and I wasn't going to make your departure easy on you."

"You're bitter," I translate.

His green eyes flash. The unspoken nexus of our conflict surfaces between us, lathering my tongue with a rancid taste.

He shrugs. "It's not my fault you handled everything sloppily. You were supposed to fabricate Primrose's death in the human world, but you couldn't even do that right. Instead, you foolishly left her sandals behind in Hob Forest, right where Katniss could see them in the painting."

I flinch. In my nervousness and haste, I must have made the mistake of not noticing Prim had been barefoot as I carried her to the Court. That whole time, how could I have missed something like that?

"You left yourself open for this mess." Finnick rubs his hands eagerly. "Now speaking of games...ugh, someone wake him up before we continue."

Haymitch's face is slumped forward. He's snoring. Effie reaches out and slaps him upside the head, causing him to wake and nearly bite her fingers off.

"Bitter or not, Finnick has brought Prim's sister here," Cinna says. "Evidently, it's related to Peeta's appeal to go home. Finnick, do you contest his appeal?"

"If he insists on following his heart's desire, absolutely. And yes, I'd love Katniss's help with that."

I close my eyes. This is what I feared. What better pawn than one that will plague me with guilt?

"Don't be dramatic, Peeta. Open your eyes."

"Our decision must be unanimous," Cinna says. "If Finnick contests Peeta's appeal, then so be it. A challenge must be offered, and Peeta must complete it. Finnick, what's your challenge?"

"The Labyrinth," he says. "Peeta against Katniss. Whoever gets to the center first, wins."

Silence swells through the garden like foam.

The shadow of a rose-shaped bush slices his face in half as he lists the terms. "Whoever wins gets their wish. Either Peeta gets to leave this dimension in exchange for Primrose. Or Katniss gets her sister back and they go home together. We'll overlook the rule that humans can't return to their world—"

Katniss blanches. I hadn't told her that part yet.

"It's within our power as the Faerie Court." Finnick runs the pad of his pinkie along his chest. "We'll enjoy watching you two play."

"Labyrinth?" she asks.

"A maze. An enchanted arena that's been at the heart of our world for ages. Think you can solve it?"

"I'll see your question and raise you a better one: Is this a trick? Who's to say you'll keep your word and not screw the victor over?"

"Give us credit, precious thing. We keep our word when we give it."

"You can't be serious," Haymitch grumbles, swinging his arm toward Katniss. "She's a human. Peeta's a fae. There's no contest. She'll never survive the maze."

My eyes dart to my opponent, who does a poor job of concealing her fear.

"What's the damned point, Finn?" Haymitch tramples on. "I thought you wanted to challenge Peeta, not give him the upper hand."

"I'll say," Katniss adds. "How dangerous could this be for Peeta? Aren't faeries immortal?"

Haymitch points to his aged face. "Do I look immortal to you, girl?"

Because he's only capable of sarcasm, I explain, "We live considerably longer than humans. We each have certain powers, but we do eventually die."

"Peeta's one of us, but he's young. And the maze will be designed to suit both of them, of course," Effie pipes. "I concur. It's a sexy, spectacular challenge."

"It's not a nymph orgy," Haymitch says. "This is protocol, woman. Shake the pixie dust from your head."

"The maze is provocative," she huffs. "Its very makeup are imagination and fantasy, which have no limits. It's fierce and gruesome and innocent and beautiful _and_ sensual. You can't deny it."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Katniss interjects.

Rue bites her lip. Cinna taps the arm of his chair. Buttercup flops over, advertising his boredom.

"The maze can be tempting," Effie says. "Dark and dangerous, but very tempting."

"If you're not careful, temptation can be your downfall just as easily as quicksand," Finnick taunts. "You'll sink in it and never recover. But oh, what a way to perish."

"She's got the point," I grunt.

"And do you, Peeta?"

"I do."

"Perhaps you should use the _point_ you've got on her."

It's just like him to turn a simple exchange into something crude. Katniss's flushed gaze flickers over to me. I hold that gaze for the mere second that it lasts before she retreats again. I force myself not to read her mind.

They vote. Finnick, Effie, Buttercup, and unpredictable Haymitch favor the Labyrinth.

Rue and Cinna object. They offer Katniss and I apologetic but supportive grins. They believe the Labyrinth is too amplified a challenge. They're right.

But one thing we can't forget is this: The maze's soul relies on its use. It hasn't been run in decades. It needs fresh tributes. This is a good excuse.

However, the Court doesn't inflict pain needlessly, and the Labyrinth is dangerous, so they offer Katniss and I the choice to either accept the challenge or retreat in peace. I can back away and nothing would change for me, except I'd be still trapped here. For her, though, there isn't a choice. We both accept.

From there, they give their word. The winner will be sent back to the human world. The game starts the day after tomorrow.

As we disperse, Finnick snakes up to me. He pulls me aside and murmurs, "If you two cross paths and you feel like giving that virgin cock of yours a makeover, go ahead and fuck her in the maze. And fuck her thoroughly. You can tell me later what she likes, because when this is over, it'll be my turn to get that favor she owes."

My thumb glides over the dagger at my hip. "Keep this up and I'll make sure you and I cross paths again, too. But to a very different end."

He beams. "That's the spirit."

I watch him leave. He wants me to get attached to Katniss so that I'll have a harder time winning. It's not going to happen.

She's stunning and funny and loyal and protective, and when she's puzzled, her brows do this cute little thing where...never mind. Despite what Finn thinks, and what the horses declared on the way here, I don't want her in that way. My heart is already taken by an apparition of my past.

Remorse, however, is where I'm more susceptible. I'm certain he's counting on that as well. I have to keep the girl with the braid in my head. I have to arm my conscience against Katniss. I have to distance myself from her.

Repulsed as she is, she wheels on me, her boots striking the checkered grass. She halts close enough for me to smell her animosity. We linger at the fringes of a yellow, tulip-shaped bush.

"I hate you," she hisses.

"I know," I answer sadly.

She licks her bottom lip. Her breath beats against my skin. My tongue thrusts into the roof of my mouth, searching for something to quench its thirst.

We realize at the same time that we've become too preoccupied with each other. Slowly, we step back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you for your patience on this! For anyone interested, I've posted a new one-shot for Prompts in Panem. It's called "Strangers." **

**Also, my stories won a few _Everlark Smut Awards_ last week! Thank you to all the readers who voted. Details on my profile ;)**

* * *

_Moonlight_

"I'm not wearing that," I say.

Rue's beam dissolves. She furrows her brow at the gown she just presented me with. "But Cinna made it for you!"

Let's not forget that I met Cinna only last night. There's no way he made this for me in the span of a day, unless he used a magic wand and a lot of confidence.

My real clothes are fine. Skinny jeans and a t-shirt aren't fancy, but they're not part of some bribe to get me to play nice. I don't want conditional gifts. I'm not here to impress anyone. As it is, I've already been sequestered in the Court's palace for the past twenty-four hours.

I'll admit, this purgatory had me spellbound when I first laid eyes on it. It was tiered and crafted into its own type of forest, with ornate woodwork and glass. Shamrock-colored rays of faerie light had illuminated its best angles from the ground. The rounded roofs were comprised of wood pieces intricately cut into bladed-leaf shapes that overlapped like scales of bottle green and lime. I saw courtyards with brooks. Lots of stairs and columns of braided wood.

I've been assigned a room with an arched floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window, oak paneling, a chandelier that looks like a glittering upside-down tree, and dandelion-embroidered blankets on the bed. A cornucopia of plump fruits and pastries suffocates the table by the fire, along with pitchers of sparkling water and some sort of pink juice that tastes like licorice.

I've stuffed my face but only out of necessity. I've hardly paid attention to the luxuries. Since yesterday, I've spent my time pacing, worrying about my sister, strategizing on possible booby traps the maze might have, pulling out my hair, thinking about my mother.

Thinking about Sunset. Wondering how he would handle this situation.

For one glorious second, I'd thought he might still be alive. Alive and here. Somewhere.

When I first learned from Peeta that all faeries come from my world originally, I thought about the faerie sounds and smells that used to follow Sunset and me everywhere—which Haymitch had said was a tactic faeries use to lure humans to this world. I thought about Sunset's mysterious disappearance. I thought about the dreams that sometimes called to me.

In Peeta's home, I entertained the possibility that maybe Sunset had been taken, a suspicion I'd had when I was little but eventually cast aside because it couldn't be true.

The Moonlight part of me clings to the possibility now. But the Katniss part of me understands how much of a leap that is, how my desperation might be working against me. I just can't let go of my rational side. I don't want to. It's safer.

A body was never recovered, but Sunset's bloodied sweater had been found. As real as the faeries' sounds and smells had been, that wool garment is still a more glaring piece of evidence to me than anything. And putting it simply, I'm afraid to get my hopes up. The chance of being wrong would kill me all over again.

The dreams had to be a product of my own subconscious. As for the faerie smells and sounds, once upon a time I'd conceived they'd been going after Sunset. But maybe they'd been pursuing me after all. Why else would they have caught up to me in the auditorium?

If I'm able to cross over, clearly the faeries may have been trying to get me as a child but didn't succeed. And as I got older, they became less interested in me and gave up.

Yes, that has to be it. It makes sense. I'm relieved.

Yet, I get the feeling that I'm missing a crucial detail. I can't think of what.

Rue's voice snaps me back to attention. "Katniss?"

I blink. "Yeah?"

"The gown? You really won't wear it?"

Rue has been appointed my companion, dividing her time between me and Prim. I shouldn't like Rue, but I do. She's a member of a Faerie Court that regulates the theft of humans, but she doesn't make those decisions on her own, she voted against the Labyrinth, and she seems to feel bad for Prim and me. Even if she doesn't see anything wrong with her world's immigration laws.

She reminds me of Prim. Physically, they look the same age. They act like it, too. I have no problem believing that Rue puts my sister at ease.

Although Rue is royalty, it's her honor to coddle me before the maze tomorrow. I'm fed and sheltered and waited on. I don't like it. I'm not about to accept a new outfit as well. I devote myself to this manifesto for all of five seconds, at which point Rue goes in for the kill.

"Primrose told us this gown was in your favorite color."

I wince. "Please, tell me where she is."

"I'm sorry, Katniss. I can't. I'm on the Court, but I'm the youngest—the only fae of the royal six—and the lowest of the hierarchy. I could get punished if I take you to her. And you both could get punished, too."

"We're already punished," I mumble.

I debate on tearing through the palace until I find Prim, if only to get one more hug, see her face, and tell her everything will be all right. But the consequences of getting caught aren't worth the risk.

"How is she?" I ask.

"She said that if she has to be prisoner, you owe it to her to at least wear something pretty for once. And that you have to win for her. And that she loves you."

My manifesto dies on the enchanted battlefield. I let the fae girl dress me like a doll.

The gown is a vibrant emerald silk, very backless and held up by thin straps. The front is designed with a plunging bias-cut bodice, while the banded waist gives the blouse a billowy effect. Layers of silk wrap around my hips and meet over of the spot between my legs, then tie loosely and waterfall over the straight skirt. The hem sweeps the carpet.

It's stunning. It kisses my skin. I feel like I'm swathed in leaf petals.

I scowl at myself in the full-length mirror.

Rue's giggles remind me of a rainbow-painted glockenspiel. "You don't need to fidget. It doesn't have pins. It's only a nightgown."

I turn. "Are you kidding me?"

"Why would I do that?"

_This_ is what I'm supposed to wear to bed? I thought the Faerie Court wanted me to don it for some ritualistic event before the morning's sacrifice. But no. This gown is merely for sweeter dreams. I should have known, based on the way that Effie woman was dressed in the garden. I wonder how these people define "casual."

"I was fine in the pyjamas you gave me last night," I say.

"But tonight is different. It's the night before the game. You deserve special attire for such a monumental slumber."

Rue hands me a pair of satin slippers and drags me to the bed, where she wiggles behind me and proceeds to glide a paddle brush through my hair while humming. The melody is beautiful. I close my eyes and listen, my throat swelling as I think of my mother and my home. It's a small tune, but it doesn't feel right to enjoy any bit of this temporary stay. Not to mention, I can groom myself.

I squirm. "Look, I'm not comfortable with this."

"I'm almost finished," Rue sings.

I try to wait it out. I really do. But I can only take it at face value. None of what's happening is a good thing. I'm going to be lost in a labyrinth tomorrow, fighting for Prim and me to go home. I'm being treated like a princess awaiting a gladiator's fate. I'm being treated like I have a choice, like I offered myself to this and have now earned payment for my generosity. I've been given everything except the chance to see my sister. I will never trust guys again, especially the ones who claim to be my friend. So much is out of my control.

Including the right to brush my own fucking hair.

But I've earned that right! I need it!

I shoot off the bed. "Okay. I just can't."

Ignoring Rue's call, I rush out of the room and race up the first staircase I find. Then the next. And the next. I climb until I reach the roof, shove through a glass door, and halt. I brace my hands on my hips and suck air through my lungs. I need to breathe. Just breathe.

Something metallic flies past me. I jump back and realize where I am. It's an atrium.

Capping one of the palace roofs, a glass dome umbrellas above me, the emerald-colored railings fashioned like vines. Intermittent stained-glass designs grace the translucent panels, while the clear parts reveal the starry night sky. At different elevations, walkways curve though the atrium, looping around tube trees that sprout palm fronds at the top.

More walkways disappear around behemoth green and yellow ferns at ground level, hinting at numerous paths and niches to choose from, while more tinted rays ignite the space. Tiny bird-swings decorate the rotunda. Those globes of light that Peeta said were ticklish float around, playing with gold-winged birds that soar overhead.

They're replicas of the mysterious bird I've encountered three separate times so far.

The dome smells of seeds and soil and ripe bouquets. I hear wings flapping. I hear Rue's hurried footsteps pause beside me. The momentary comfort I found here is gone.

I make my request before she can open her mouth. "I want to talk to Peeta."

It's evident she doesn't think that's good idea. She touches my shoulder. "Katniss, you shouldn't demand things of faeries. It isn't polite."

"I want to see Peeta. I want to see him now!"

"What is it?" his voice asks.

I spin around, the skirt of my green gown twirling with the movement. He's sitting on an emerald handrail, leather-clad limbs swinging sportively. He looks tired.

That is, until he registers what I'm wearing.

And it transforms him, his features kindling, his irises warming to a denser, more fathomless blue. He soaks me up from head to toe. His wrists tighten around the bar, his gaze ravishing me so thoroughly that I feel its hearty caress down my back.

I'm literally held by that gaze. I'm breathless and sheepish at all once. A nest of palm fronds quivers. There are moments when things don't make sense. The sweltering heat that taints my blood whenever he looks at me is one of those things. So is the drum circle in my belly.

Somehow, the silence tells me that Rue has left us alone. I'm more aware of the mood-lighting than I was a minute ago.

"H-how did you know I was here?" I stutter.

"I always know what you're doing."

I scorn that answer with everything I'm worth. I slap my fists onto my hips, an aggressive gesture that makes me feel a lot better. "Why did you take Prim?"

"That was explained at the Faerie Court."

"No!" I shout. "Don't play ignorant with me. You know what I'm asking. _Why_ the hell did you take her?"

"You have quite the human tongue."

"My tongue isn't finished with you."

Peeta's expression smolders. My cheeks boil. That was not how I meant it.

He hops off the rail and advances on me. I scurry backward. In my haste, my ass hits a birdbath and almost knocks it over. Water splatters onto my fingers. I brace my palm on the stone to stabilize myself.

He stops when our chests are a hair's width apart. He stares at me. The stud in his ear winks.

I can't take it. "In the garden, Finnick said I should start by asking specifically why you took Prim. What part of the story was left out?"

"You stake your confidence in Finn now?" He cocks his head, his voice tuned to a sour note. "He's fond of you. Does that make you happy?"

"Get serious. My feelings about him have as much depth as my feelings about wax."

Peeta's smiles in spite of himself. His boyish good looks are unfair. Seeing him like this is the same as walking into a sweet shop. It's deliciously overwhelming. I have no idea where to start, where to look first, although I know none of this is ideal for my health.

"Will you walk with me?" he asks.

Fine. If it means he'll answer my question.

We stroll through the atrium, passing thickets of yellow and green, the hem of my nightgown strumming against his legs. It's like we're in a jungle. Golden birds hop from tree to tree while others sail around us in a synchronized dance of spanned wings. A love pair circles one another and gives chase.

The walk, albeit beside my enemy, does me good. The knots of tension in my joints unravel as we climb to the topmost rafter and navigate mid-air through the dome. Despite his agility when he saved me in the forest, Peeta's gait is a little lopsided. The imperfection is attractive. For some reason, it tugs at me.

In a move I can only describe as child-like, he walks ahead, turns, and speaks while tramping backward. "You see? I had a plan. You can't run away as easily up here."

A snarky reply springs to my mouth, but he cuts me off. He whistles, his lips pursed like the bud of a flower. One of the birds swoops down and settles on his shoulder. When it fans its metallic-tipped feathers at me, I know who it is.

"It's been ages," I remark.

"Are you two acquainted?" Peeta asks.

"We've met a couple of times. It pointed me down the path where I bumped heads with that salivating killer hound." I regard the bird. "I assume you didn't know that was going to happen, 'cause that would be a nasty trick."

The bird slants its head innocently and flies away.

Peeta grins. "Mockingjays. Aside from the Court, they're the only creatures who can cross back and forth between our worlds. They're blessed. This is their sanctuary."

"After he left me on that path, I'd started to think he was in cahoots with Finnick, since I saw them both in the auditorium."

"Mockingjays assist all people without judgment, but they're obliged to no one. Not even the Faerie Court."

He wiggles a palm frond. His hands are substantial, yet every time he touches something, the contact is gentle. "The bird meant you no harm by helping you. He was likely leading you to me, since I live in the area. He probably figured a forest guardian would be a better companion for you to the Court. Mockingjays are incapable of deception."

"Just them?" I challenge.

My comment does the trick. His impressive jaw locks. He's a spectrum of light and dark, teasing one minute, introspective the next. I don't know how to judge him. I don't get him at all. Why aren't I tempted to rip his throat out?

"You're not as inflexible as you think," he says out of nowhere.

"You don't know what I think," I reply tersely.

"You'd be surprised."

"I think this world is a mask. It's a wolf in sheep's clothing. If you're going to constantly evade my original question, I _think_ I'm done here, so I _think_ you need to get out of my way, or I _think_ I'm going to hit you."

"Why do you waste yourself saying things you don't mean?"

"This place is ruthless and selfish. _That's_ what I think."

He stops walking. "And everything and everyone in your reality isn't? It's all good and pure?"

Chagrin hooks around my waist and yanks me to a standstill. It's disturbing how quickly I can start to doubt something.

"We may have our evils," Peeta says. "Some of us may be conniving. Some of us may be pranksters or seducers, but some of us are also _helpers_." He flings his arm toward the mockingjays to enunciate his point. "Yet none of this is relevant. You willfully deny the art of fantasy. Who do you think keeps that alive where you come from, Katniss?"

"I—"

"It's _us_. Our existence does that."

"That doesn't make up for the fact that you steal humans."

"You think we do that just to be cruel? We do that for survival. We do that because faeries can't have children. We need fancifal humans to become us. If we die out, if our world dies out, so does imagination. It's a cycle between us."

"Oh," I say.

"Oh," he says back.

Which annoys me.

"Well, still. How noble," I mock.

His eyes taper to sapphire slits. They probe my insides, sifting through the good stuff in order to find the bad. I can practically see his antennas sparking when they locate the problem. I would almost bet he can right see through me.

"Something happened to you," he says. "You feel like creativity betrayed you. Therefore, you don't trust it. You try to rationalize and explain away everything. You only believe in one form of reality. You believe there are limits to possibility."

"What's so wrong with that?"

"It's blinding you, that's what's wrong. Look at where you _are_, Katniss! What hurt you so badly that you refuse to accept this world, even as you stand here?"

"Um, you took my sister?"

"It's something else. Something from the past."

I stiffen. I remember my father's hands and my best friend's hands. Both sets were as tame as Peeta's, but I'm not exactly nostalgic about this fact. I wish I had something besides the rail to squeeze right now. I've been caught, although I hadn't known I was hiding in the first place.

"There is goodness in our land, too," Peeta says softly. "There is gentleness. We take, but we're gracious hosts."

A fresh dose of outrage flares to the roots of my hair. "If you think Prim is happy to be here just because the Court is feeding her bonbons and pampering her with a whirlpool the size of the Nile, you're wrong. Your hospitality is bullshit."

The audience of mockingjays—I hadn't realized they'd been perched nearby and eavesdropping—bursts into one unified, lyrical, tweeting laugh.

"Quiet!" Peeta snaps, his voice tolling throughout the dome.

They go silent and scatter away.

"She's a prisoner," I say. "Because of you."

"Let me explain that."

"Seriously? You think you can stop me from despising you?"

Peeta trains his gaze on the atrium's glass panes, his profile wistful, his earring like a mini planet. "I told you, I don't remember much about being a human," he begins, crimson spotting his throat. "But there was a girl."

I straighten and smooth over the material of my gown, suddenly feeling inadequate. The effect this information has on me is baffling. Matter of fact, it's plain wrong.

He purposefully suppresses the details about the girl but tells me they had a strong emotional bond. He doesn't recall much, but he's had flashes of their friendship, their trust, their pain and joy. He believes what they had was special. He believes it was real. He believes she's still mourning him, hoping he'll return to her.

The tale skewers me in two equal pieces. I know this kind of friendship. I know what it's like to grieve over it. I know what this girl might be going through. I don't even question whether she's waiting for him.

"Katniss," he says. "I don't want to see you or your sister trapped, but this is my only chance. I want to know who I really am. I want to know where I came from and the people who mattered to me. True, I didn't take Prim merely to maintain the life cycle between our worlds. Very true, I did for a greedier reason, and I hate myself for it, and I'm sorrier than you will ever know. I don't expect you to forgive me, but aside from Prim...I detect longing in you. You miss someone. You miss them so much."

The backs of my eyes tingle. I might do something stupid like cry.

"What would you do to see them again?" he asks.

My father. My best friend.

Anything. I'm certain I would do anything to see either of them again.

Peeta and I descend the walkway, down to the oasis at the bottom, both of us silent but physically attuned to one another. His empty hand, my loose hair. His yearning, my fire. There's peace between us right now, but in the morning this temporary truce will end.

We reach a lily pond in the atrium's center. Peeta slaps the water, considering something, doubting whether to follow through. Finally, he looks directly at me. "The Faerie Court doesn't own us. No matter what happens, we belong to ourselves."

What he says haunts me, but I act like it doesn't. "I know that, Peeta."

"And you're breathtaking in that gown."

I saw it in his face earlier, but I still wasn't expecting him to say it. I never see things like this coming.

He approaches me, reaches out, and toys with the material at my hip. His fingers barely disturb the silk, but it sufficiently blows my mind. My breathing becomes erratic. The spot behind my navel somersaults.

"This color suits you," he says, his tone low and broth-like.

"I don't need your compliments," I rasp, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

"Beauty deserves to be celebrated, not wasted. It deserves to be complimented, despite the relationship between the giver and receiver. You're like spring itself, Katniss. Only your eyes are as fierce as winter. They impair me." Peeta's blue gaze flits up to meet mine. He smiles in admiration. "And you have this little beauty mark on the scoop of your back. It's you: lonely and magnetic and impossible to overlook."

I can't believe this. I want to push him out of the way and dunk my head into the lily pond. I'm inflamed and humming with energy. I yearn for more, but I shouldn't, but it seems natural and familiar, but it's also inconceivable.

"I'm not big on poetry," I say.

"Liar," he responds.

"You don't know anything about me."

We pause. It doesn't ring true anymore. In some alternative universe, he might know everything about me. And if I take a second look, maybe I know him just as well.

"I wish we could have been friends," Peeta admits, then releases the silk at my hip. "Can we agree to be cordial adversaries?"

Friends. The word wedges into my heart, shaping it into a multidimensional thing like clay. I'm supposed to hate him, but something keeps getting in the way, something innocent yet coarse. I ache over loss of a friendship that never really began.

I'm also angry. Anger is easier. I feel right at home in anger.

"I wouldn't do what you've done," I say.

He frowns.

"I might be tempted by it, but guess what?" I point to myself. "_I've_ got morals. The people I miss wouldn't want me to kidnap someone. And this girl you're so desperate to get back to? She would be disgusted with you."

I shove past him and storm down the atrium's fern-choked lane, past bunches of color and jittery birds. I want to rip off this dress the minute I get back to my dungeon. I hope I can sleep. Now that I'm actually here, I hope I don't have one of those faerie dreams.

Peeta veers around me, blocking my escape so fast that our bodies collide. My thin nightgown sweeps against his durable cotton shirt. I've insulted him. He's being protective of how I talk about his perfect mystery girl.

Why does this bother me? Why do I feel this hectic yet heartsick connection to him?

"Be careful, Katniss," he warns.

"You can count on it," I say hotly.

But there are so many things to be afraid of that I'm not sure which he means.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for the wait, guys. Got detoured with a few things, including last minute revisions. This was a heavy-duty chapter, but I hope you like it! Friday posts are still on target from here on ;)**

* * *

_Moonlight_

I knew this would happen. I can't sleep. I toss and turn. The silk of my gown tangles around my legs because I didn't remove it after all, the vulnerability of being naked in this palace stopping me from ripping it over my head.

Our time in the atrium thrashes in my mind like a wild thing. Peeta's words about not letting the Faerie Court own us. The girl he yearns for. That he and I could have been friends.

I'd wanted to hug him. I'd wanted us to console each other because, for a moment, it seemed like that's what we were meant to do, what we were made for. Yet another thing that doesn't make sense.

The fireplace glazes a patch of the floor in an orange film, a faint horizon line that doesn't stretch far, failing to reach other parts of the room. Everything else is dark.

My heart shifts to a new domain. I think of Sunset and feel guilty for wanting to embrace someone else the way I used to embrace him. I feel guilty for every non-violent reaction I've had toward Peeta. I feel guilty for Peeta's penetrating smile. I feel guilty for how easily he can sway me. I can't allow my emotions to weaken me like this.

_Be careful, Katniss._

The nerves mount with each passing minute. What will happen tomorrow? What if I never make it out of the Labyrinth?

Sunset always beat me at board games. I wish he were here to mentor me. I let my thoughts wander to a memory of him rocking me to sleep. I dip into that memory and allow it to melt me like a marshmallow in hot chocolate. The metaphor makes me chuckle, and the chuckle relaxes me, because I can't stop associating my best friend with sweet things.

I chuckle so much that...that...that's when I start crying. It's like a volcano erupting, and I don't fully register that it's happening until my cheeks and chin are soaked. Melancholy and fear drown me. I try keeping the noise down by wheezing into my pillow.

_I'm scared. I'm so scared. I'm so alone._

No one hears me, but I wish someone did. I wish someone could hear me.

At least the tears work as a balm to my insomnia. I exhaust myself. The drowsiness mounts as my eyelids become heavy, my weeping offering me release. As I fall under, I pretend my best friend's there, comforting me once more.

The fantasy expands. It becomes so real that I smell, hear, and taste it. In my haze, the door to my room sighs open, his sure footsteps seeking me out while trying to be quiet. He halts beside me, hesitating, because it's been a long time since we've done this, and he's unsure if I'll want him, which is funny. Doesn't he know better?

My eyes are cemented shut. I refuse to open them, afraid that he'll just disappear if I do, or that I'll wake up entirely. I want to live in this dream.

A compassionate set of fingers smoothes the hair from my forehead. Those fingers are thicker and broader and seven years older than they once were. I whimper and strain into his touch.

"Shhh," he whispers.

I've always wondered what his voice would sound like if he'd lived to be my age. He's here now. I can find out.

I mumble, "Where have you been?"

Sadly, he doesn't answer. But his silence is raw. Without shame, I follow the weight of his presence, dragging my arms from the covers and spreading them out, welcoming him back to me. I mewl. A wordless, needy plea that causes his breath to hitch. I communicate my thoughts.

_I've been waiting. Come here. Come to me._

He battles with indecision for a terribly long time. But in the end, he releases a spent, debilitated noise. The bed slumps beneath his weight.

I exhale, curious and nervous to feel him alive beside me. He still wavers, but my affection reassures him. He gathers me to the sculpted wall of his body, with its fleecy warmth, its pulse. Our bodies rest on our sides, linking around each other. He comforts me, takes the fears away, soothes me with whispers.

"You're safe," he promises. "You're not alone. Everything will be okay."

I'm unable to hear his voice as clearly as I would like. It's too fuzzy. But I do understand his words, and for now, I believe him. As he protects me with his arms, I'm relieved to learn that nothing has changed between us. We belong to each other. This is how it should be.

Still, I'm surprised it's this simple for us to reunite. I know that he's surprised, too.

I'm also amazed by how much he's grown, expanded really, into this bulkier person. I wonder what he thinks of me. Is my figure is foreign, with its curves and new breasts?

_Do you like my body? _

He gasps. This dream is perfect. I can speak without speaking, which is nice, because I'm drained and cozy and lazy now that he's here.

_You have no idea how much I've missed you._

My knee skims the split in his thighs. His limbs are resistant, but I'm determined. I slip through them and then slant my head upward, tracking the scent of him like a huntress.

The hand cupping my head stills. The other palms my shoulder, an anticipatory but defensive gesture that tries to stop my progress.

"Don't," he cautions.

He sounds as though my actions have momentarily shocked him. As if this isn't what he wants from me. I'm perplexed, but I also don't care. I need solace. I need forget about tomorrow, just for a little while.

I need to satisfy this ache. I need to worship him the way he deserved to be worshipped in life.

So when my lips sketch his bobbing throat, and his chest pumps shallowly against me, I take control and sample his neck. I map delicate, leisurely, open-mouthed kisses over the skin, which flares with goosebumps. The sound he makes, the shadow of a conflicted sigh, sparks a frenzy in me, funneling down to the spot between my legs.

We were too young to do anything like this. We're not children anymore.

I locate the supple flesh where his throat merges with his collarbone and suckle it. This time, the crinkled moan spills from his mouth, unbidden. It's the befuddled response of someone who's never been touched or kissed. Someone who is trapped by my actions.

_God, you taste like melted sugar. I knew you would._

His heartbeat quickens beneath my palm as my thumb outlines his pec, and even as he attempts to retreat, his back arches nonetheless. My agonized breathing flows into the tight space between us. My hands grasp for things I can't have but am desperate to take.

My free hand musses his hair, also different from what I remember, not as shaggy. It doesn't matter. I'm glad to rediscover this aged version of him.

My mouth stamps across his jaw. My lips search for his.

He reels away so quickly that I don't put up a fight. "Please...please go to sleep," he begs. "I'm just here to hold you."

Instantly, I'm wounded. He doesn't want me to kiss him. Not even after all these years.

I'm on the verge of crying again. He's with me, but not with me. In reality, he would never push me away.

I expect him to disappear, to get up and saunter off like a ghost. Instead, he strokes my back, lower and lower, reaching the scoop where I have a beauty mark—didn't someone else compliment this part of me?—and circles it with his finger. It calms me down.

I don't want to end this dream feeling embittered or disappointed. I'm too depleted for that, so I do as he says. I surrender to other dreams while traces of him spice my lips.

kpkpkpkpkp

When I wake up, the hearth is gray and caked with ash, the remnants of a toasty night. A significant dent marks one side of the bed, but judging from how wrinkled my green gown is, I conclude it's the result of a fitful sleep.

It wasn't real. Of course, it wasn't real. I'd known the whole time it wasn't real.

Twisting onto my stomach, I grab my pillow and sob quietly into it. Maybe my mother and Prim are right. Maybe I can't let go. Maybe I'm damaged beyond repair.

Of all people, my mind takes refuge in Peeta. His imperfect, lopsided walk. His off-key whistle and his grin when the mockingjay landed on his shoulder. His honesty. His remorse. His acceptance of our two worlds, the good and bad of them, and his belief that each realm is necessary no matter how much loss exists in both.

His hope. Hope that someone he doesn't completely remember is waiting for him.

How crazy. How amazing.

I get up and let Rue brush my hair when she arrives. I ask her (politely) to open the window. Fueling up for the day, I stuff fruit and pastries down my throat. I armor myself in the dark green leggings, ivory tunic, and leather tie-belt Cinna has provided me. I want to refuse the outfit, but it'll do me no good to insult the Court. At least I still get to don my lace-up boots.

I hate having to leave my backpack and Prim's sandals behind, but Rue assures me that she'll give them to my sister. If I lose this game but survive it, Prim and I will be stuck here together. But if I don't even make it out of the maze, that means our fight in the auditorium was the last time we ever saw each other.

Realizing this, I practically hyperventilate for a good five minutes while Rue rubs my back. Then she leads me through the palace, skipping and chattering on about things I pay no attention to.

We halt in an ivy-covered quad as a team of footsteps emerge from the opposite wing. The rest of the Court arrives, along with Peeta, who's wearing fitted charcoal pants and a blue shirt that matches his irises. Dark half-moons taint the skin beneath his eyes. Apparently, his sleep was just as crappy.

When his gaze finds mine, it brims with...confusion? Concern? It's hard to say.

What isn't hard to recognize is the way his features swelter as they take me in, intensified by an emotional longing, an awareness of something. Those eyes fasten onto my side braid. My fingers reach for it, and when they do, I notice how his own fingers start twitching.

He looks away, tuning me out in a manner that seems more than physical. I shouldn't be thinking of him like this, so my mind latches onto my best friend for protection. In my dream, it was easy holding him like we used to. He tasted as I imagined he would.

But his words and hesitant responses were all different. And ultimately he rejected me. Why? What had that meant? Had it been a sign? Maybe he was telling me there were limits to how much I could cling to him.

Because he can't fully come back. Because he's dead.

While Peeta is not. He's alive and right in front of me. He's also my opponent.

"You look splendid, precious thing," Finnick says, seizing my attention.

"Whatever," I say.

In other words, _Fuck you_.

Dumb ass flattery and a waste of hotness. I'm beginning to think he's more of an asshole than Peeta. The green-eyed goblin thinks I'm that easy, does he? He should ask pickleball-playing Gale or popcorn-for-brains Cato or my shitty virginity-taking homecoming date how miserable of a conquest I can be.

No one speaks the rest of the way as we head out, mounting a fleet of hulking brown horses and riding to the garden. Beyond that, we crest a hill.

My legs steel themselves. In the valley below, clustered beneath the lilac sky—lighter shades of purple in the morning, darker at night—is a hexagonal maze of fat green hedges crisscrossing and intersecting like the world's toughest geometry lesson.

Poised in what I guess to be the center is a spiraling column of wood with something glimmering at the top. Peeta mutters that it's a bell tower.

That's our goal. It seems impossible to get to. I'm screwed.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he offers.

"Are you trying to make her feel better, Peet?" Finnick asks.

"Shut up. Both of you," I say, not caring about etiquette.

As we approach, the walls of the Labyrinth rise to around ten feet. Peeta and I are positioned in front of separate stone entrances. Effie pats down her hair in anticipation. Rue twiddles her thumbs. Buttercup laps at his paw.

Finnick keeps his distance, a murky and remote expression on his face, which surprises me since I assumed he'd be doing a jig.

What happened between him and Peeta? What brought all this on?

Although Haymitch is flapping his arms like mad and trying to give him pointers, Peeta keeps staring over at me. Despite how bad he feels about it, he's going to try his best to win. I understand what he's fighting for. This wish for a real home. This need to know himself. This hope for a lost love. Oh boy, do I understand, and it makes me depressed. Depressed because now that friendship is out of the question, he only sees me as the person standing in his way.

We face off across the distance. My personality runs its natural course. I scowl at him.

Even though he hikes up his chin, his features are doleful. The glint at his hip snags my attention. It's the second time since meeting him that I notice the sheath and dagger tethered to his pants.

"That's so not fair!" I protest. "He gets to take his—"

Cinna materializes in front of me, his finger poised against his lips, instructing me to be quiet. "Prim told us you have a skill," he says, presenting me with a gift that makes my throat raw, as if it's been run through a cheese grater.

It's a bow and a fully-stocked quiver. Just seeing it, gliding my hands over it, restores my confidence. "Thank you," I whisper.

Cinna rests a hand on my shoulder. "The more you resist our world, the harder the Labyrinth will be for you. The more you believe, the greater the odds in your favor. Keep your heart open but always take a second look. It's the faerie way and will serve you well."

"Why are you advising me?"

He just smiles and walks away. I follow his movements until it directs me to Finnick's sidelong glance.

"Easy as a peach," Finnick says, winking at me.

I check to make sure no one else is looking, then give him the finger. He throws his head back and laughs.

Each set of the Labyrinth's stone double-doors open without anyone touching them. I'm not even going to ask.

Cinna leads me to my threshold, while Haymitch swaggers with Peeta toward his end of the maze. We swap one more thorough look. He nods and mouths, _Be careful._

I fight to stay neutral but am the first to glance away. And then I cross inside.

The doors sweep closed behind me.

I jump as the sound reverberates up and down a path branching on either side of me.

When the echoes fade, it's quiet. So quiet that that I may as well be isolated in this world. My shaky breaths ring in my ears. Suddenly, the arrow pack is dead weight on my shoulders, digging into the tail of my back. My fingers find the tie in my belt, which I unknot and reknot, feeling the coarse leather rub my skin. My heels skim the bronze cobblestone floor, jagged as rock in some areas. I could perish from magic or break my neck from a simple fall.

The path stretches its green arms to the left and right. Stately hedges bookend me. I get the sickly sense they can hear my knees knocking.

Gaps in the hedges notify me of sporadic turns and corners. I consider the sky, but I remember there's no sun here to help navigate east or west. There are only stars to signal day and night.

"No sun. No moon," I murmur to myself, feeling bereft.

I need something to mark my direction in case I have to retrace my steps...I could drop a trail of leaves. So thinking, I drive my hand into the bush.

I instantly regret it. A sharp point slices through me like a razor. Squeaking, I yank my arm back and wedge my thumb into my mouth, tasting the salt of my blood.

"Dammit," I choke out. It's a clean cut right down the middle of my thumb, from nail to finger. It's not deep, but it's burning. I sink my teeth into my upper lip to stop myself from making another horrible noise, because this hurts the way a chef's knife would hurt. I lap up the blood as best I can until it stops, which takes a while.

The burning is another matter. It doesn't stop. Embedded in the stomach of the hedges are tiny thorns. Bunching my injured hand, I try my best to ignore the pain and use my free fingers to carefully pluck the leaves, stuffing them into my quiver. Then I choose the left path.

The rest of the way, the maze is suspiciously sedate. It's nothing but wall after wall of perfectly-cut shrubbery that seems to be closing in on me. No surprises jump out. No floors open up and swallow me. It's just bland corner after bland corner as I periodically release a leaf to the ground.

The bell tower tolls what I assume is every hour.

Hour one: I suck on my wounded finger.

Hour two: I make a dozen wrong turns and hit too many dead-ends.

Hour three: Those ticklish white lights come out of nowhere and swarm me like bubbles. My skepticism offends them, because when I'm not expecting it, the little bitches nosedive and raid the leaf trail I'd made on the ground. They whiz away before I can catch them.

Hour four: This isn't the time to get hungry.

Hour five: Or thirsty.

Hour six: My thumb burn has traveled through my hand up to my forearm. This maze is bone dry.

Hour seven: The bell tower still looks the same distance away. And I'm still freaking looking at the same side of it. Which I can't be after changing paths endlessly.

When nightfall comes, a package tethered to a parachute drops from the sky. Tied to it is an obnoxiously hypocritical greeting card from Effie.

_Perhaps a little treat after your first big, big, big day will help you see clearer. Can't have you famished on our account. It wouldn't be polite of us. - E _

Inside the parachute are a canteen of water, fruit and cheese, and a cake probably containing half my daily calorie allowance. I nearly sob for joy. I split the cake in half and gobble it without tasting. I wash it down with the water and ration the rest. Then, on the hard ground, surrounded by thorny green hedges, I curl up and pass out.

kpkpkpkpkp

The next day, I roll my stiff neck and munch on leftovers. I procrastinate getting up, then finally dust myself off, the canteen dangling from a strap off my shoulder, alongside my quiver. I hate this place.

As I thread through the never-ending, never-changing maze, I worry about the burning in my arm, which has now progressed to my shoulder. Not only is it spreading, it's getting worse. I have to stop several times, hissing, gasping, and massaging it.

With each pause, I spend forever trying to orientate myself. Sometimes I halt for no reason and just stare. More nothingness.

Reaching another dead-end, I turn around and then stop. Did the hedges change position behind me? It didn't look like this before. There are supposed to be two parallel ones, with a lane between them. But now, there's only one long wall of shrubbery stretching out from the sides.

Suspicious, I twist back toward the way I was headed. The dead-end is no longer there. Instead, it's the path I just came the fuck from. Did the Labyrinth do a complete revolution on me? Yes, dammit all, it did!

Okay. I'm baffled. I've never been this baffled about direction.

Am I going in circles? Or maybe squares?

What's Peeta doing? What's he dealing with? Will he be waiting around the next corner? Why am I thinking about him? Why do I care if he's okay?

At first, I'd judged the maze for not packing more of a punch. But now, I get it. This monotony is torture in and of itself. It's enough to drive a person mad.

Am I already mad? Maybe this is what madness looks like.

Hedge. Hedge. Hedge.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

The bell tower tolls and tolls and tolls. Stupid tower. Must be a big, fat bell if I can hear it from here. I'm not any closer to it. I'm pathetic. I'm probably already losing.

The sun is setting again. Sun setting. Sunset.

A hint of his ten-year-old face appears before me, blurry as a watercolor. The image begs me to focus. Focus, focus, focus.

I blink. I pinch myself. I move forward. Whew.

And then this: Her soft voice whispering to me. It comes from the left, where the leaves are quivering, as though she's speaking to me through them. It's Prim.

_This way_, she says, urging me toward her echoing chant. _This way, Katniss. This way._

Stepping toward the sound, another voice tempts me to the right. _No, this way, my girl. Follow me. _

It's my father. I haven't heard his voice in years, and even though I don't recognize it, I know it's him. I know from his lisp. I used to giggle at it.

_I'll show you where to go_, he says._ This way. Come this way._

I twist and head in the direction of his words. But then Prim calls to me again.

_No, Katniss. Dad's lying. You have to follow me._

_No, Katniss. Don't listen to your sister. I know best._

It hurts. I don't want to have to choose. I gape to right. I gape to the left.

_Come on, Kat. Trust me. I'm your sister.  
_

_No, my girl. Over here._

_No, here!_

_No!_

I crouch onto the ground and slam my palms on my ears, but they don't stop. They get more demanding. They argue with each other, their voices escalating to shrieks, which hammer into my ears.

_That's not Dad, Kat!_

_That's not Prim!_

_He's trying to trick—_

_She's trying to trick—_

"Stop" I shout. "Please! Stop!"

They're overlapping. They're hurting me, stabbing my ear drums and making them bleed. I'm going to lose my hearing. My temple throbs as I wail for them to leave me alone.

_Katniss, listen—_

_No, Katniss, listen—_

_To me!_

_No, me!_

I can't tell them apart anymore. Their voices grow teeth and snap at me from every direction, the same way a nightmare does. Why is my family fighting? Why won't it stop? What have I done wrong for them to be so mad?

Desperate for a lifeline, I rapidly pluck the string of my bow, force myself to concentrate on its shape. Keep looking. Don't listen. Keep looking. I peer at it more closely than before and..._more closely than before_.

_Take a second look._

My memory bursts through the cacophony. That's what many faeries have said to me since I got to this world. Finnick. Peeta. Cinna. Have I listened to that advice? No, I haven't.

What I see around me is the obvious way through the maze. Which must mean it's not the right way.

And what I hear is not my father or my sister.

_The more you resist our world, the harder the Labyrinth will be for you._

Shuffling Cinna's tip through my mind like a deck of cards, I figure it out. This is the maze my consciousness is expecting. The fake one. It's not real. I need to believe in the real one.

I ignore the shrieking voices and close my eyes. Oddly, my thoughts float to my childhood bedroom, with its ruffled sheets and paper-lamp and toys. How it felt to wake up there. How the sheets smelled. How much bigger the world seemed outside the window. How awed I used to be.

How much I miss it.

Silence. It's like a device has been turned off. A channel changed. The voices are gone, vacuumed from existence.

When I open my eyes, the landscape is also different. I stumble to my feet. The hedges ahead of me have disappeared, replaced by a forest.

It worked! For once, I can't feel my arm burning. Tears of relief sneak up on me, rising like a tide at the backs of my eyes and pausing there, on the cusp of overflowing.

My sidekick mockingjay arrives in time to stop me from weeping. It pops out from one of the trees and flaps its golden wings in my face. My reward.

"It's about time," I lecture, but it comes out as a sniffling chuckle. I really need this chuckle. I envelope myself in it and ascend into a maniacal laugh.

While I'm in the middle of euphorically losing my marbles yet again, the bird pecks me.

"Okay," I snap and follow it into the woods.

Once we're over the threshold, an army of trees converge and form a barrier behind us, bough and roots snarling together, caging us inside the woodland. The bell tower is out of sight. I glance at the mockingjay, but it doesn't seem surprised by this turn of events, only alert, its beady eyes skipping everywhere as it perches on my shoulder.

My burning shoulder. I feel it again. I must have been so caught up in the bird's appearance that I hadn't noticed the pain anymore, but now it returns to the forefront of my mind. Rubbing only seems to make it worse.

I tap on my opposite shoulder and joke humorlessly, "Mind hopping onto the other side?"

The mockingjay does as asked. It flicks my braid with its beak. I think it knows I'm not doing well and is trying to be a buddy. I'm not a pet person, but this guy has turned out all right. He's blessed, according to Peeta, so he can't be too bad a good luck charm to carry around.

Peeta. Where is he? Has he gotten farther than me? Is he hurt? Is he safe?

As the mockingjay and I keep going, fatigue suddenly slaps me in the face. Now that I'm in new territory and have company, I can literally feel how long I've been moving without rest. Somehow, the day has progressed into night. I fight away thoughts of nocturnal animals like the dog-wolf that tried to eat me.

Deeper into the forest, I'm struck dumb. Garlands of glittering blue spiderwebs swaddle the trees, from trunk to canopy, glinting so brightly you'd think they were precious necklaces. Their silken threads spin around gigantic coconut-shaped pods dangling from the higher branches.

I halt. The bird catches my sleeve in its elongated beak and tugs, urging me to hurry, but I don't listen. My huntress ears have perked. I hear the ferocious buzz of something inside the pods. A lot of somethings. The pods are nests. Of what?

I set my bow and move deftly, but it's not an impressive sight. I'm tired and hungry.

A lone fizzing alerts me. Sacred or not, the golden mockingjay doesn't notice its predator. But I do. Some kind of rabid wasp hones in on my little friend. It's abnormally big, a mutant as big as my fist. Big enough to strike down.

I shoot it in the dark. The arrow gorges the creature against a web-strewn trunk, disintegrating on impact. My kill incites a chain reaction. The buzzing magnifies into full-blown, collective chaos from the pods above.

I recall Peeta's words in the atrium: _I always know what you're doing._

We're in trouble. The mockingjay and I are in trouble. And somehow, somewhere out there, Peeta knows this.


	8. Chapter 8

_Sunset_

I sink to my knees. Nearing the end of my second day, I'm finally out of the green hedge portion of the maze.

In the beginning, the Labyrinth's elevation had increased and decreased repeatedly, the paths inclining and pitching downward, sometimes at such steep angles that my nails dug into the ground to keep me from falling. It was like hiking up and down a chain of mountains, which made turning into corners and other lanes painfully difficult.

If I hadn't received that parachute of food and a water canteen from Effie—she and her arrogant greeting card aside—I would have withered.

Then this morning, the hedges began to shift and scramble, forcing me to dodge them and their hidden thorns while still trying to solve my way through the Labyrinth. This went on for hours.

I've now reached the fringes of a forest. Nightfall is fast approaching.

Resting on the ground, I bend over, press my forehead into the grass, and concern myself with Katniss. Since that first meeting with Faerie Court in their garden, I'd been struggling to tune out her thoughts. My only concessions from this had occurred the other night. Once, when she demanded to see me in the atrium.

And then when she lured me into her bed.

I cannot forget it. From my room, I'd heard her weeping. I heard her thoughts of loneliness and fear. It stripped me. Against my will, I went to her, discovered her barely conscious and riding the tails of slumber. Her private urges called to me, tugged me into her sheets, into her arms, into the silk of her fair green nightgown.

I'd only meant to console her.

The last thing I expected was for her to touch me like that.

I'd never been touched by a girl before, never felt the brush of a girl's questing lips on my skin. I was so new to the sensations, so staggered by her actions and their effects, that I'd been unable to stop her at first.

She'd been fantasizing about someone else, a dear friend that she missed and whom she mistook me for. And while it stung to know that she didn't really desire me, that I was merely a stand-in, I could not blame her.

In a manner, I'd been fantasizing, too. Her words were the sort I often imagined Moonlight saying to me.

I suppose Katniss and I took comfort in each other. In that bed, she and the girl with the braid became one and the same. My love had doubled for that brief time. I found myself wanting to rouse and kiss her. Fiercely. Madly. My desire terrified me, filled me with remorse, as though I was betraying Moonlight.

The next morning, I'd slipped from Katniss's room. Then later, on our way to the maze, I noticed her hair weaved into a braid. It was a coincidental and innocent style, unintended to strike me down.

Yet it had. The cruel irony of it boiled inside me, bringing nostalgia and yearning and confusion to the surface once again. Seeing her exhibit a characteristic that I associated only with Moonlight, I couldn't help adoring and hating Katniss.

Wanting her. Fearing her. Wishing she was mine.

And since then, I've vowed to work harder, to freeze Katniss from my brain before she turned it into batter.

Nonetheless, I can't stop worrying about her. I've been fretting over her safety but forcing myself not to read her mind and find out where she is and whether she's eaten, because if I do, it might get the better of me. I might do what Finnick wants and get attached. I might lose this game.

Stumbling to my feet, I assess the bell tower's location and the direction I need to go in order to reach it. I amble through the forest, scanning the trees for any signs of a challenge.

Not long after, I come upon a promenade of mirrors framed by coiled birch twigs. I've heard horrible tales of this promenade. Each glass pane reflects one's greatest desires, and the trick is not to look at any of them while passing through. Otherwise, one might become so consumed with what one sees that they'll fall into the illusion and never return.

Avoiding the reflections is easier said than done. As I move, I lick my lips, my heart racing with curiosity. The temptation stifles me until I end up stealing a glance at one of the mirrors.

That's how I come face-to-face with Finnick.

He looks the same, an imposing puzzle with a good-humored side not often seen by others. Same dazzling eyes and secretive grin. It's not the treacherous version I've been dealing with lately, but rather the friend he used to be. The one I haven't dared miss until this moment.

I brace my hands on the mirror's frame and stare right at him. He regards me sadly. But why is he sad? Who has made him feel this way?

"You have," he answers.

It's the truth, even if it's unfair. Even if he's done the same to me. Has done far worse to me, in fact.

Yet I beat my head against the glass in remorse.

_I did not wound you on purpose. I did not!_

"Yes, you did," he says.

_I'm sorry, Finn._

"No, you're not."

_Yes, I am. I want your friendship back...I want us to reconcile...I want that so much...please...I..._

_No! Not real!_

I wrench myself away from him and tramp backward, pointing at the mirror. "I've done nothing to hurt you."

Finnick snarls something at me, but I don't listen. I turn away and stumble ahead on legs made of bricks.

I suppose looking once is all it takes. Now that I've surrendered to the urge, I can't seem to resist any of mirrors. The next one displays a place I don't know, perhaps because that part of my life has been stolen from me.

It's a bakery. An empty bakery, with trails of flour on the floor, a film of it streaked across the counters and floating through the air like dust particles in sunlight. Even through the glass, I feel the humidity and smell the dough. It smells so good that I want to reach out and grab a golden loaf of bread from the cooling rack.

This place smothers me with warmth. I imagine working there, baking towers of wheat and rye and pumpernickel rolls, giving people something to smile about. I could just step inside and find simple, hearty, domestic refuge. It would be so easy.

Accompanying the aroma of bread is something else, though. Something unpleasant. The overripe stew of a woman's perfume. It brings to mind harsh words and throbbing flesh, as if I've been slapped across the face.

It's enough to deter me. I shake myself. The horrid scent must have come from my subconscious, meant to invade the hypnotic effect of the mirrors and warn me.

I retreat from the sight of the bakery and drag myself forward, but not before another mirror seizes my attention. In defeat, I glance at it.

And see myself as a child.

Dirty, starved, yet spirited. When I shuffle closer, he flashes a toothy grin and says, "Sing to her." I have no idea what he's talking about, but I don't care. I want to protect him, to know him, to stay with him. I want to ask him questions. I want to be him again. His presence is so tranquil, inciting a foreign sort of relief I haven't felt since I can remember.

That's me. Little Peeta. Human Peeta.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi," he says.

"Do you know who I am?"

He laughs like that's a foolish question. I laugh, too.

I flatten my palm to the mirror. He does the same. We're together. Does he know where Moonlight is?

"You love her," he says.

"Yes," I say. "Always."

"She's here. Step inside and you can be with her."

I close my eyes. Yes, that's what I want. Just a few feet ahead and I can—

_We're in trouble._

My eyes flash open. Katniss's unguarded thoughts rip through the barrier of my mind, her distress so great that I wrench myself from the boy in the mirror and spin around, listening for her.

She's with her mockingjay friend. They're in a murky woodland, surrounded by spiderwebs and pods. The pods are grating with activity and about to burst.

Pods. Buzzing. Tracker jackers!

My head snaps up. Ahead of me, the wilderness looks thicker, denser, with a glint of blue light. She's in there. She's close.

I bolt through the promenade, ignoring the mirrors that flash bitterly on either side of me. Charging into the dusky forest, my heels grind into the soil as I deliberate my luck. This place may be dangerous, but it's still part of the greater world of faeries. The maze is unpredictable, yet it's said to be randomly charitable.

I take a chance. I whistle four notes and wait.

From around the curve of a tree, a snowy white horse appears. It springs toward me, its angelic mane fanning the air. My mouth lifts into a smile—I do enjoy magic.

_Holy shit, shit, shiiiiiiiittt!_

Katniss again. Hearing her panic, I leap onto the steed's back, pat its cheek, and whisper, "Take me to her."

This horse is a helper. It doesn't require favors as payment. So when I ask, we fly.

We charge into the wild, looping around trunks at a ferocious pace. I'm jostled from left to right. My teeth rattle. The nearer we get, the more the trees cram us in, the woodland narrowing and trying to impede our progress, which offends the horse so much that it increases momentum.

The militant droning of the tracker jackers gets louder. It rings in my ears in one collective battle cry. I'm so afraid we won't reach her in time that I almost retch all over the horse's neck.

"Faster!" I bellow.

The animal launches into a mad gallop. It races through a veil of gnarled branches and...there she is.

Katniss's profile sprints past us as fast as her legs can carry her while an army of massively-sized tracker jackers pursues her like a sandstorm. The mockingjay flaps beside her, lagging from its normal speed, valiantly trying not to leave her behind. We swerve onto the path, kicking up dust and emerging beside her.

She screams. She stumbles to a halt, mouth open, as I grab a fistful of the horse's mane and lean to the side, my body hanging off its white frame.

I reach out my arm. She takes it. I hoist her up behind me, and we're off again while the mockingjay zooms ahead of us and disappears into the trees.

"No!" Katniss wails.

"He'll be fine," I call.

Our horse crashes through the forest, everything swathed in blue webs that glimmer like jewels. I glance over my shoulder. The tracker jackers corkscrew toward us, the nasal hum of their fury pinching the air. One of them snaps at the steed's tail but doesn't make contact.

The horse trills. It's anxious and losing confidence. I smooth over its neck and whistle, then dig my heels into its sides, begging for more speed.

Katniss lets go of my waist. I feel her twist around, then I hear arrows wheeze into the air from the bow Cinna gave her. She cries out with each shot she takes. Is she hurt?

Directly in front of us, a wall of webs link between two trunks like a treacherous net, blocking our route. The horse sees it and pants in terror, but it keeps going, trusting me. I'll need that trust because my dagger is small, which means I'll have to be quick and efficient.

Just as we reach the web, I yank the animal to a stop and simultaneously urge it to turn sideways, causing it to skitter across the ground. In that second, I pray my swiftness protects us. Ignoring Katniss's puzzled shout, I swipe my knife through the netting and cut through.

"Hurry!" she screams.

As if that wasn't my intention, I think wryly.

The gap is just enough for us to fit. Our horse rights itself and surges ahead. We breach the web just in time.

As we make our escape, I turn. Katniss has stopped shooting. She and I watch as the slit in the web closes up, sewing itself back together right as the tracker jackers reach it. They smack into its threads, then burst into gases of blue light.

Once again, I almost lose the contents of my stomach. Katniss sags against my back. The clanging rhythm of her heartbeat communicates with my own. We ride in weary silence until we clear the webbed woods and reenter a world of green leaves.

Darkness surrounds us. The evening and its stars have arrived.

Our horse slows to a trot. I allow it to take control, my head hanging down, Katniss's arm hitched tightly around my middle. Is she okay? Am I okay?

Soon enough, our ride stops. It delivers us to a cove nestled within the maze like an exotic secret. Beneath the night sky, a sparkling aquamarine lagoon reflects its blue-green colors off the surrounding plants. Tiers of squat, foggy waterfalls shower off a rocky knoll while dragonflies flit over the surface. Clusters of large, paddle-shaped leaves inspire a good rest. The aroma of a split melon is a fine indication that food is nearby.

Our steed has done well. I recognize this sort of healing pool and know it's a safe place to pause until morning. Although the water has its own price for use, it's nothing to fear.

It's also drinkable. I intend to throw myself at it. My tongue has dried to parchment.

"Why did you help me?" Katniss asks.

The frustration in her voice causes me to swing around and inspect her chapped lips. She's as thirsty as I am.

Her braid is a mess, the end of her hair frizzled from the moisture in the air, the tuft beneath the elastic band curling at the ends. How ironic that she and Moonlight both favor the same hair style. It truly is the fate's way of mocking me.

"You would have suffered if they'd stung you," I answer. "You wouldn't have made it to the Labyrinth's center."

"And you would have won."

"I don't want to win like that."

She scoffs and looks away. She's baffled by my heroics. I don't need to read her mind to figure this out.

"Hey, silver girl." My fingers catch her chin, forcing her to face me as I repeat slowly, "I don't want to win like that."

She starts to respond, but something makes her wince. She rubs her arm. There hasn't been time to find out, but I'm still amazed to learn that she's an archeress. And a skilled one at that.

I'm reminded of the noises she made while using the bow. "Katniss," I begin. "Are you in pain?"

She hesitates, then yields to her discomfort. She shows me her thumb. In a child's voice, the kind that searches for help, the kind that doesn't know what to do, she says, "I cut myself."

The wound rides up her skin from knuckle to nail. I wasn't with her, but I would wager that we entered the same section of hedges at the beginning of the maze. I ask her if it's spreading, and when she nods, I jump off the horse. She yelps when I pull her down and lead her to the lagoon, where I make her kneel.

"Tell the lagoon a secret," I instruct.

"Huh?"

"The water will welcome you. It will ease the cut, but first you have to tell it a secret. Anything you can live with people knowing, for it will whisper that secret to anyone who listens close enough."

"I don't think anyone is going to ask about my secrets. They won't even be in this maze to do it, so who cares?"

"All the lagoons in our realm will host your secret. The waters are linked that way. And if you remain here..." I trail off, because finishing would mean acknowledging that she might lose against me. "Just choose something you're willing to reveal to anyone."

"Um..." Katniss labors over this. "I sing in the shower," she says. "And I use the shampoo bottle as a microphone."

"I dance in the shower," I say, then add, "Like a chicken."

Despite the moment, Katniss bursts into laughter. The lagoon quivers. When it stills, I wind my fingers through hers and guide our hands into the water, which is warm and bubbly. She moans.

Feeling daring, I remove our entwined hands from the pool. I kiss the round, trembling ball we've made of them. I keep my eyes on her as she holds her breath.

With the night sky and the lagoon's colors, the horse couldn't have picked a more romantic spot. Sighing, I release Katniss's hand, aware that I'm getting myself into trouble again.

She examines her skin. The cut is gone.

"The burning would have eventually spread to the rest of you," I say.

"How long would it have lasted?"

"You don't want to know. On the inside, you would have been a girl on fire."

She glances up, her gray irises wrapping around me. "Th-thank you. Thank you for this."

"You're welcome," I say in a low voice.

Not a full minute has passed, yet we gaze at each other a second time, my features concealing nothing, her features unfurling into more tender terrain. There it is once more. That spark, that kinship, that heat, although we're adversaries.

The mockingjay interrupts. We jerk apart as the bird arrives with gusto and nosedives into the pool. We follow its lead and drink ravenously. I fill my stomach until there's no more room.

Katniss watches the golden-winged bird get comfortable on a branch, then wipes her mouth. "So what now?"

"We camp here."

"Together?" She wavers. "We're competitors."

"Tonight, we don't have to be."

"Let's get some things straight."

I've met a few human businessmen who've crossed over into my world. So I give her my best impersonation of one, pretending to straighten a tie. "Okay. Name your conditions."

"Don't get cute."

"You think I'm cute?"

"I don't care if you're cute. Your cuteness is not my problem. Not that I'm saying you're cute, alright? I don't think about that. Cuteness is just a byproduct of luck, so it's nothing to brag about—oh, wipe that moronic grin off your face."

"No," I say, beaming.

I can tell by her voice that I've flustered her. "I don't have conditions. I have questions."

"Ah. We've done this before."

She inclines her head to the horse presently grazing in the grass. "Nice set of hooves. Where did you get them?"

"I whistled and it came." Naturally, she doesn't believe that. "Let's just say it found me."

"How do you always know where I am? Do you have a magic sense or something?"

"Yes. I have a magic sense or something."

"What were those insects?"

"Tracker jackers. My guess is they're not happy about sharing their domain with spiders, most likely in endless conflict, and therefore constantly on alert. If you get stung, you'll be trapped in hallucinations, ambushed by your worst fears forever. There's no cure." Thinking of the promenade of mirrors, I add, "There are plenty of other traps here. Some will only prey on your desires, but it's still threatening."

She stares at the water, the aquamarine color tinting her olive features, highlighting her nose and chin. "No. Fears are always harsher. Desires aren't bad."

"They are if dangled right in front of you, just out of reach until you go mad. Desires are just as malevolent if you long for something you cannot have."

"And you call this the land of make-believe?"

I roll my eyes. "Whoever said the land of make-believe was made purely of sugar cubes? Originally, your human fairy tales were gruesome, were they not? But we have goodness, too. Look around you. This oasis is stunning, isn't it? The horse is majestic and kind. The mockingjay is your friend."

She shrugs._ And what are we?_

Her inner question plagues me, too. Are we companions? Something in between? Something less? Something more?

We share another look. I feel an important point is eluding us both. Connections such as ours cannot be simple, cannot materialize in so short a time, from one breath to the next. Or can they?

I stand, releasing myself from her invisible grip. I head toward the woods. "You're staying with me."

She bristles. "Who put you in charge?"

"I'll gather us something to eat."

"I'll go with you."

"That's not necessary. I'm a big fae boy."

"And I can hunt, you know. I don't need—"

"Katniss," I groan, swinging back around and drawing out my next words. "Shut up."

She hops to her feet. "What?"

"Be quiet, don't argue, and listen to me. I enjoy taking care of people, I enjoy taking care of you, and I would like the satisfaction of doing so now. Allow me to be chivalrous to a pretty human girl. It's fun. Oh—" I reach out. "—And I'll take the bow."

She furrows her brow, swipes the weapon off the ground, and safeguards it against her chest.

I smirk. "I'm just kidding."

If there is a funny bone in her, my words have just tickled it. The reluctant signs of humor ornament her face. The effect this has on me is a reward that I want to place on the mantel in my own mind, for it makes me proud.

She's about to grin in spite of herself until I add, "Content yourself in the lagoon, get undressed, and let the water revive you. It will do you well to be naked for a while."

Nakedness is not a private thing in this world. We speak freely of it. But for Katniss, it's evident that the subject is more intimate, and so I walk away, elated by the vision of her crimson cheeks and speechlessness.

Every part of her is a different landscape. Her mind is a winding tunnel that even my powers have limited access to. Her body is a pasture, swaying splendidly in the purple light. Her heart is a loose cliff, hardened yet susceptible to crumbling from the briefest shift of wind. Her sadness is a placid lake. Her will is a forest, self-sufficient and deeply-rooted. I have never known anyone like her.

As I had suspected, melons abound in the surrounding woodland. I collect one of the pale green orbs, along with nuts and spongy mushrooms. It isn't easy with two hands, but I can always return for more. I move slowly, lost in thoughts of two girls.

By the time I get back, I assume that Katniss is finished with her bath. As I reach the gap in the bushes, I discover that I'm wrong. My mouth falls open.

I spy the beauty mark in the dip of her bare back as she stands in the lagoon, the waterfalls spouting mist against her. She has left her underclothes on, but it doesn't matter. I'm encapsulated by her swan-like curves, the braid that she's wound haphazardly at the top of her head to keep it dry, the defiant wisps of hair that have escaped and dance over her shoulders. The swell of her breast as she turns to the side.

I want to draw this. Even more, I want to become part of this magnificent portrait.

My physical reaction to her mortifies me. I feel its progress, my thighs flexing, my abdomen clenching, my groin swelling. I wonder, not for the first time, what it's like to be with a girl. With _this_ _girl_.

The mockingjay peeps at me. Katniss turns and catches me gawking before I can flee into the bushes and tend to my hardened self. Her eyes bulge. She plops like a stone into the shallow pool, ungraciously disturbing its surface. She realizes that she's lost track of time, the water being such a warm and soothing diversion.

I pry myself from her mind, regretful to have stumbled there, and step into the enclosure. "Do my eyes deceive me? Are you actually taking my advice?"

"I was just getting out."

"Why? There's no hurry."

_Really, Katniss. Do not hurry. Please do not hurry._

My arms lift, brimming with gifts from the wild. "Hungry?"

She watches as I scrunch up the hem of my pants, sit, and drop my legs into the lagoon. My toes spread. The water's temperature is a balm to the soles of my feet.

She waddles in my direction, helpless to the siren's call of food, as I arrange the meal on the ground and proceed to slice up the melon. Without clothes, she's a lot less talkative. Yet once we start feasting, the silence gets easier. I sense Katniss stealing glances my way, the weight of her gaze as it wanders repeatedly to my chewing mouth. At one point, I hear her clear her throat.

But she relaxes. She relaxes so thoroughly that it seems as though we've done such things a thousand times.

Nourished and cleansed, she folds her arms over the mossy earth and kicks her floating legs out behind her, no longer concerned with her unclothed state. We listen to the waterfalls and watch the dragonflies drift. The mockingjay feeds on the vegetation near its perch.

All at once, she swings around, braces her hands on the rim, and nimbly lifts herself out of the lagoon, landing beside me. Hills and valleys of dripping skin fill my vision. Her soaked undergarments cling to her as she contemplates her limbs dangling in the pool next to mine. I shift slightly, lest she realize what she's doing yet again to the fit of my pants.

"I really just got out of the water in my underwear, didn't I?" she muses.

"Yes," I gulp. "Yes, you did."

"Why doesn't this feel weird? Why do I want to forgive you? Why is it so easy to be with you?"

"I don't have an answer to that. It's easy for me, too."

Spontaneously, she rests her head on my shoulder. I match the movement by resting my head on hers.

"I lost someone," she stuns me by saying. "I lost two people in my world, when I was little."

The fact that she wants to confide her woes is both scary and wonderful. I wonder if it partly has to do with the lagoon's influence. It stores away secrets and also whispers them…and it encourages people to share secrets, too. It's another of the "temptation" sides of the Labyrinth, like the mirrors were for me earlier.

I don't tell Katniss this, though. I don't want to lose this moment. Hoping my silence will motivate her further, I stare at the aquamarine depths. The watercolor of our bodies ripples across the surface, merging us into a colorful lump.

"First, my father died. Then my best friend. In the atrium, you asked me what I would do to see them again. I understand you, Peeta. I really understand, but what you're doing is still wrong. Even if...even if it is for love."

She keeps her head down when she says this, but I see how her movements have altogether stopped, waiting for my response. Yes, she believes out of principle that what I'm doing is wrong. Yes, it's about her sister.

Yes, she is also jealous.

I can't resist. I plummet into her mind and hear it. She is jealous of the girl with the braid.

I'm envious, as well. I'm envious of way she spoke of this "best friend," so differently than when she mentioned her father. Her father was spoken of with dedication and acceptance. Her friend was spoken of with ardor. He must have been the one whom she cast me as in her dazed fantasy the other night.

"This friend. Is he the love of your life?" I ask gruffly.

Katniss looks up at me, and our noses touch, and our eyes lock. "Is _she_ the love of _yours_?" she counters in a defeated voice that breaks my heart.

Staring down at her, I cannot respond properly. All I can do is gaze at her wet, lonely mouth. While she stares at mine.

We turn away at the same time.

The mood is mild as I give her privacy to slip into her clothes. Her undergarments are wet, but when she's dressed, I can tell from the damp spots in the material that she has kept them on instead of hanging them to dry. The horse and mockingjay recline into their own corners to rest.

Lagoon shrubbery can adapt to whatever need the person requires—once that person has shared a secret, that is. So I entertain Katniss by coaxing a giant plant to uncurl its leaves and shape itself into a hammock, which she climbs into eagerly. The bush wraps around her like a blanket.

"Wait," she says as I start to move away, intending to make my own bed. "I...I, um..."

Oh, no.

Oh, yes.

"You want me to sleep with you?" I ask.

In answer, she scoots backward, allowing me to join her. We sink into the leaves, clasping one another without reservation, the way we had in her room at the palace. I reacquaint myself with her embrace. I play with her hair.

"You have said you have a faerie sense. So...you sensed me that night in the palace, didn't you? The night before the maze, when I was upset. You came to my room," Katniss murmurs. "It was you. Wasn't it?"

The time is long overdue for me to clarify that my "faerie sense" has to do with mind-reading. But we're both tired. And I'm a coward. So instead, I simply whisper, "Yes."

She nods, too worn to react more lucidly, slumber winning over us both. I inhale Katniss and exhale Moonlight. As my eyes close, memories resurface of a woman sleepwalking, nights like this one wrapped in another girl's arms as we took turns resting.

_This feels right._

In my haze, I cannot say whether this is Katniss's thought or mine.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you once again to my betas, DustWriter and Chelzie!**

**For anyone living in the Southern California area: L.A. Times Festival of Books at USC this weekend! YA authors will be speaking in classroom panels, on outdoor stages, and signing books. Veronica Roth, Lauren Oliver, Lissa Price, Kami Garcia & Margaret Stohl, Aimee Carter, Marie Lu, Elizabeth Wein, Maureen Johnson, Melissa de la Cruz, Sarah Dessen, Gayle Forman, and more that I haven't listed :) **

* * *

_Sunset_

We're a resistant pair when it comes to waking. We squint as the sky trudges from dark to light, but despite its invasion, our leaf-bed cups us in its palm, encouraging us to remain closer together. Our bodies stir against one another, stomachs brushing, arms clinging, her breath heating my throat. The experience is immense.

The waterfall continues its endless trickle. The mockingjay and white horse feed on the nature surrounding them. We'll have to release the steed at some point. He's helped us enough.

Katniss wipes the slumber from her eyes in such a fetching way that I think I could watch her do it every morning. She rumbles, "This is like something I would have dreamed of when I was a kid. Falling asleep and waking up in a giant plant."

"With a boy?" I ask.

"Nah. Boys are stupid."

We laugh and then quickly fall silent. Once we rise, things will be different again.

Now that she knows it was me, I'm anticipating that she'll bring up the night we shared in her bed, in the palace, and what she did to me with her human mouth. But she doesn't. I wonder if this chasm will go unfilled, maybe as an unspoken agreement to forget about it. I wouldn't be surprised.

"I've been wondering about something," she says, pinching my shirt. "At the Faerie Court, you accused Finnick of being bitter. What did you mean? What's the deal with you two?"

I cringe. This is not a subject I'm happy to wake up to, but she has a right to ask. Finnick's grudge is one of the main reasons we're in this mess.

I speak into her hair. "Finnick and I were friends. Good friends." The sadness amplified in my voice takes me off guard, though it shouldn't. It wrecks me to think what has become of our friendship. Katniss must hear it because she looks up at me.

"Finnick was the one who brought me here," I continue. "He's the one who stole me. He and an entourage of nymphs."

She grimaces. "Why?"

"I had the qualities of a potential fae. Not only that, but when he sensed me in the human world, he sensed the possibility of a companion, someone he could mentor. I think he was lonely, despite being a member of the Court. He's not like the other five."

"If he's different from them, how did Finnick manage to snag himself a seat in the big house? Did he inherit it somehow?"

"Each new member is appointed by their predecessor prior to death. Finnick has characteristics that suit royalty."

"Sounds like an insult to the Court."

"Anyway, he brought me here, so he wasn't going to allow me to leave that easily. On the surface, in the eyes of the Court, that was a valid reason for challenging me...but it disguises the real one. It has to do with a faerie named Annie."

Katniss sighs. "A girl. Of course."

"Don't be so flippant. What I'm doing is about a girl, too."

It's out before I can take it back. Her face scrunches up as she turns her attention to the lagoon. My gut churns with confusion as usual, the urge to envelop her, the desire to reassure her. But of what? I've spoken the truth, haven't I?

"Our hearts are the seeds of our actions," I say, thinking of the boy she's attached to. "Finnick loved Annie. He loves her still, but it's—" I cough. "It's unrequited. She likes him very much, but she thinks he's arrogant."

"Smart lady."

"Very. His special power is trickery, but it never worked on Annie, no matter how many times he tried to play her into liking him. Perhaps that's why he fell for her in the first place. Unfortunately for him, she's attracted to sincerity and selflessness."

"Wait." Katniss sits up, her body as fixed and unyielding as her bow. "Is this a love triangle thing?"

I flush. "We met at Court during Rue's birthday celebration. I paid Annie a compliment and from then on, she had a crush on me. Even though I made it clear that I didn't reciprocate the feelings."

Katniss sinks back into my chest but keeps the scowl on her face. I'm not sure to whom it's directed. It's all I can do not to pry into her private recesses to find out.

"Even if I had wanted her, I wouldn't have betrayed Finnick," I say. "But he didn't believe me. Although he knows I favor another, he blames me for Annie's rejection. He thinks I've enjoyed any number of her kisses, which isn't true." I shake my head. "That's really why he doesn't want me to leave and find my human girl. He doesn't want me to have the happiness that he thinks I've stolen from him."

Katniss is quiet for a moment. "He's still an asshole, but that sort of makes him seem more..._human_ to me."

"Humans and faeries have the same hearts, same fears, same hopes."

She tenses. "If all humans become faeries, does that go for me, too? What about Prim?"

I grin, rejoicing in the change of subject. "It's only been a few days. It takes a bit longer. Besides, nothing will happen until this is over."

At the reminder of our predicament, Katniss's features cement into stoicism. Her lips thin and her eyes narrow to silver needles. Wordlessly, she untangles herself from my arms, crawls out of the leaf-bed, and pads across the grass to her overturned boots, which she'd kicked off last night. Without looking at me, she crouches, pulls them on, and yanks on the laces.

The power of last night fades. Offering our secrets to the lagoon, chuckling, teasing, discovering equal ground, watching her bathe, gawking as she emerged from the water, her head on my shoulder, her memories, her asking me to sleep beside her. Suddenly, it's all disregarded.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the hulking plant. The sight of her fingers on those laces has me reeling because it means our truce is over.

We eat and drink from the pool, then fill our canteens to the brim. I'm glad to see proof that Katniss had also received a parachute at some point during her journey. But when she gathers her stuff to leave, I agonize. It's obvious that we need to split up, take different routes, and find out who triumphs from there. Of course, it's what I expected. It's what's supposed to happen.

But it's not what I want.

"We can do this together," I say.

Katniss is in the middle of swinging her arrow pack over her shoulder. She stops and glares at me. "We can't do anything together, Peeta. We shouldn't have even done _this_."

"We did nothing wrong. We needed each other. Do you regret it?"

She falters. "We can't be friends."

I stride over to her. "But we can be allies."

"How is that even going to work?"

"You mean you're interested?"

"I didn't say that," she snaps, then grabs her bow off the ground. "You know what? No. No, I can't. We can't."

"We can help each other," I insist. "Two minds are better than one. We can solve this maze together and protect one another at the same time."

"That makes no sense, Peeta!" She swings around, takes two steps, and paces right back to me. "Why are you suggesting this?"

"Because it's safer this way. And I don't want to leave you."

"Why?"

"I just don't!"

Her eyes bloom with apprehension. "It's totally illogical. We're playing against each other. No one else is in this game."

"We can make it to the center. The Faerie Court is smart enough to know that it's possible we'll get there at the same time anyway. It's not likely, but it's still possible. They'll be prepared for such a case. They'll have a final challenge to determine the winner. That challenge will be at Finnick's discretion, but he's obligated to make it equal for both of us."

"He might not care about that obligation and try to manipulate your chances."

"That's for me to worry about. Besides, he could do that now if he wanted. If he really wanted, he could sneak around the Faerie Court's back. But I'm not planning on letting him best me."

"I don't..." But she doesn't finish that sentence.

I brace my hands on her shoulders. "We can find our way through this. There's still a risk of becoming separated or one of us not making it, but at least we'll have a better chance together. We'll look out for each other until we reach the bell tower. It's not against the rules. If it was, the Court would stop us from even talking about it right now. They're tracking our progress as it is, and they'll probably welcome the added drama." I take her face in my hands. "Katniss, I'm not taking _no_ for an answer. I'll follow you if I have to. I'll follow you like a shadow."

She grunts, "You're a big fat idiot."

I nod. "Let's be idiots together. Watch my lead and I'll show you how. It's easy. All you need is practice."

Her frown melts into a dry laugh. She scrutinizes me with a sidelong glance, tapping her index finger against her hips, which rotate with indecision. I step closer to her. The toes of our shoes bump.

She whips out an arrow and wiggles it at me, forcing me to scuttle backward. "We get to the center and then face off. No amendments. No obligations."

"Agreed."

"If this is a trick—"

"We've shared the same bed twice," I say. "I've had plenty of chances to be a trickster. I could have tampered with your virtue in the palace. I could have tied you to the leaf-bed and made it impossible for you to get out of here. I could have left you last night and taken your weapon. I could have—"

"Let's stock up." She passes me, mumbling, "And it was _three_ times."

Right. I didn't count the night in my cottage when I first found her poisoned and took off her clothes. I'd forgotten that. But she hasn't.

Satisfied, I prance after her, the horse and mockingjay trailing behind. Her footsteps slow as she takes one more look at the lagoon. Then, with rough exhale, she pushes her way through the bushes. There's only one path leading out of the enclosure, so we don't have to debate which way to go. We collect more nuts and mushrooms, packing them into Katniss's quiver.

When we cross through the underbrush, she freezes. I halt beside her, my jaw unhinging, my hand reaching for hers and squeezing.

"This can't be," she whispers.

"You might want to take that statement back considering where you are," I tease.

"This was a forest last night."

"Things change."

We've arrived into a maze of books. Blocks of shelves soar above us so high that we can't see the tops. They intersect and separate in the crisscross traditional manner of a labyrinth, the same way our quest began with the hedges. Novels and manuscripts march across the ornate wood shelves, their bindings made of pine, ocher, and burgundy leather, the titles illuminated along their gold-leaf spines.

Some are pregnant with hundreds of pages, others are rail thin.

Some are sagging and brittle with age, others are tightly bound.

Some are dusty, others are polished and gleaming.

The orderly repetition is both disorientating and stunning. It's a kingdom, a cluster of towers made of paper and canvas cloth and leather and words.

"Someone has a lot of time on their hands," Katniss says, equally as spellbound as I am, her voice small and hushed, speaking without humor.

I've never seen this wonder before, yet it's another myth I've always known about. "It's every story ever written," I say. "Katniss, it's every tale ever spoken aloud, thought of, or dreamed about. It's a record of every time the imagination has molded itself a character. It's our archives. A replica of them, I believe. The real archives are housed in the palace, far beneath the ground."

As we amble forward, the aromas of crisp new pages and overripe brown pages tickle my nose. Because we're outdoors, ivy swirls around some of the shelves. The mockingjay flits from ledge to ledge, gliding its wings reverently along the books. It's a tight squeeze maneuvering the white steed through the compact rows, but we manage, and the animal doesn't complain.

Katniss reaches out to stroke one of the manuscripts—a title neither of us have heard of before—but then stops herself. "What if they're cursed?"

"I doubt it," I say. "I make no promises, but I suspect that you can touch them."

"Where's the catch? Besides finding our way out of here, why is this place so nice?"

"Don't underestimate simplicity. It will be hard enough to burrow our way through here."

This is the most overwhelming form of distraction, another place we could lose ourselves in if we're not careful. Meaning this portion of the maze will be tedious to solve. Though it's a good sign that we're heading in the right direction.

At first, there are too many stories and routes to consider that we scan the titles in impaired silence, yet we remain diligent about keeping our pace and not halting for too long. Being here is like wishing for something priceless, something out of your league, and then finally winning that priceless something, and not knowing what to do with it. It's like being handed a crown and the giver saying, "Have fun."

"Do you think the books are all in alphabetical order?" Katniss asks.

We stare at each other and then laugh. Something washes over us, erasing the lingering tension and uncertainty. Hands clasped, we move together, rushing forward like children, dragging each other this way and that, peeking and exploring, making sure to stay close. To not split up.

We defy this rule only once and only slightly. I tell her to stay still, then break away from her and turn a corner. I run to the opposite side of a shelf, pull out a stack of books, and peek at her through the hole. "Boo!"

Having expected me, she just shakes her head. After a second of deliberation, her lips quirk into a grin. She leans into the gap and lowers her voice like a man. "What can I do for you, stranger?"

"I want to enter your house and hear a story."

"What's the password?"

"No one mentioned a password."

"Then you can't enter."

I pretend-growl. "Let me into your library, human."

"Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin," she sings in a very unKatniss-like performance.

We're practically rolling over from the absurd sound of her voice. Sobering, she indulges me, snatches a random story, and flips to a random page. "This one's called_ Rebel_." She rolls her eyes. "Ugh. It's romance."

"That means we're in the romance section. And surrounded by sex prose." I raise a teasing brow. "Read it."

"Remember in the atrium when I told you I'm not big on poetry? Well, the same goes for romance."

"If my memory is correct, I also called you a liar."

"The title alone is cheesy."

"Read. It."

Katniss huffs and clears her throat.

_"This boy, however different, makes me feel a whole new kind of alive._

_His free arm slides over my stomach. His hand maneuvers into the gap between my pants and shirt, scorching the curve of my hipbone. His thumb traces circles over my skin. My heads falls back completely as I melt against him in surrender. The motions and the words and the half-light and the languid brush strokes and his body encase me deep, deep, deep. Oh, so deep into this moment."_

She trails off, her voice having turned breathy and bottomless."_My body_...um, _M-my body_..."

I'm mesmerized by her difficulty continuing the scene.

_"My body. His body. Heat._

_My gaze. His gaze. Desire._

_My mouth. His mouth. Passion._

_Passion. I encounter it for the first time in that secluded cabin. As thunder pelts the distant landscape, we collide. His firm lips slant over mine and claim them, own them with the dizzying motions of his jaw. His tongue traces my mouth, top and then bottom, begging entrance. I sigh. My lips spread like wings, desperate to be fed every succulent drop of him."_

Our gazes meet through the shelf. The air thickens. The mood flips inside out. A new urge courses through me, knocking my senses askew like something drawn out into a pleasurable sea, the effect tingling across my mouth while silvery saltwater laps gently within her eyes. I feel their magnetic power. My heart sails through me, out of me, and docks safely into her. She has a way of anchoring me even when I hadn't known I was drifting.

I want to taste her. Wetting my lips, my feet inch forward until my chest hits the shelf while Katniss moves closer, crossing the divide until our breaths meet. I tilt my head into the gap. She does the same, her lids fluttering closed. I'm so nervous that my knee drives into some of the manuscripts below, knocking them over. In that tiny compartment, tucked between storybooks, we hide.

And our lips brush.

We've barely made contact when the horse rams its snout into my shoulder and the mockingjay pecks her braid.

"What?" we grunt at the animals, our annoyance echoing through the rows.

The horse whinnies in disapproval. The mockingjay tweets like strict parent. They aren't the talkative types, otherwise I'd be getting an earful now, but their concern snaps me out of it. I shake myself. Regret coils through me. Did we almost...? How did I allow it to get that far?

Katniss's pink-cheeked expression mirrors guilt. We stagger back and regard one another. We return to our senses.

We're silent as we straighten the bookshelves, placing the manuscripts back into their original spots before continuing through the maze. From then on, we pay little attention to the tomes.

What was I thinking? It had to have been the sorcery of these books, their luster commanding us both, wanting us to get lost in the tales and each other. That's the only explanation for our actions. The Labyrinth likes to tempt its tributes. I'd figured Katniss and I would be stronger as a pair rather than separate, but I hadn't thought about how this place could manipulate us in other ways.

It still amazes me how intensely the mood between us can shift. We'd fallen asleep like happy ferrets wrapped around each other. We awoke and distanced ourselves. We reluctantly formed an alliance and then giddily inspected the maze of books. We chuckled and played.

We nearly got carried away by desire.

We're lonely. We're exhausted. We're being preyed upon by the maze and the inner trappings of our consciousness. We long for other people, not each other. We're using one another as vessels to comfort and fantasize. That must be it.

But why am I unconvinced? Why do I doubt that my attraction, my fondness, and my affections for her are not real?

I'm starting to resent this archive. Now, we're back to being strictly partners. It makes us both irritable. For the rest of the day, this is how it goes:

"Let's turn here."

"Let's go right."

"Let's turn around."

"Let's take a break."

"Let's veer left."

"Let me talk."

"Let me finish."

"Let me go."

"Let go!"

What was once awe-inspiring quickly sheds its veneer. Within its monotony, this place grows a new face. A disturbing face. The towering shelves infest me with anxiety, burdening me with so many words that there's little room to conjure my own thoughts. All I see are stories I will never discover, thoughts that will elude me, choices I cannot make. And for each book I give my attention to, I must reject another.

I try not to think of Moonlight but think of little else.

I walk and walk and walk. The violet night sky descends upon us. Occasionally, Katniss's wrist knocks against mine by accident. Time passes. The bell tower gloats, tolling each vile hour, tempting me to cover my ears.

And just like that, we're through.

Without epiphany or ceremony, we reach the boundary of the maze, and the landscape draws a deep breath, expanding before us. We blink as if we'd stopped believing that we would find an end. But there it is. Another woodland.

"I'm sensing a pattern here," Katniss mutters.

"The Labyrinth alternates between corridors and forests," I explain. "And the forest has many different facades."

Exiting the book maze doesn't mean we've gone the right way. There were probably numerous openings we didn't discover, which would have led us in other directions. We glance up and check the bell tower's current location. We're closer.

Katniss exhales. "So what facade will this forest have?"

"I don't know. Let's hope it involves food and more water."

Soon enough, or perhaps too soon, we find out. There's only one path to follow for now. A half-mile into it, the forest crowds and sharpens.

And when I say that it crowds and sharpens, I mean it.

For the trees ahead breed massive wooden thorns that protrude from the trunks, snarling together like a rose bush and blocking our way. On either side of us, the tangled wall continues without end.

"Crap," Katniss gripes. "We must have done something wrong."

Apprehension gnaws at me. I close my eyes. "No. There is a way through."

"That's impossible. We'll never be able to fit between those thorns. They'll slice us to bacon strips."

"Which is why we have to go up."

Instead of me having to point, the mockingjay perches on one of the spikes, aims its beak upward, and caws. Katniss scans the heads of the trees cutting into the sky. Above, amidst the darkness, is a haven of scattered orange lights. Only it's not quite a sanctuary, nothing like the lagoon, if my guess is correct.

As I had predicted this morning, we can't take the horse any further. We say goodbye, thank the animal for its help, and release it into the wild. The horse nuzzles our necks and then gallops off, fading into the evening like a cloud.

The mockingjay wastes no time flying away, too.

"Hey," Katniss calls, throwing up her arms in irritation. "Get back here, you!"

"It's fine," I say. "He's frightened."

"Frightened of what? Why does he keep showing up and disappearing?"

"Like I said before, mockingjays are blessed. They can cross dimensions, they can point the way for us—to a certain extent. But that doesn't mean they don't have their own fears or weaknesses. He likes you, but he doesn't like you enough to linger in a thorned forest. He'll be back once we get through this area."

That said, I hesitate, wishing there _could_ be another option than ascending into the trees. Katniss sighs and begins to climb.

But I stop her. "I have to warn you—"

"Don't worry. I'll watch out for the thorns. And I'm not afraid of heights," she professes.

"Heights aren't the problem. It's just…ah, dammit."

"What?"

I rake my hands through my hair. "Thorned trees can only mean one thing. It's what the mockingjay feared getting near."

"What?"

"I thought only animals would be included in the maze. I don't know why I'm surprised to be wrong. This place is also known for decadence, after all."

"I swear to God, Peeta! Just tell me. What's up there? _Who's_ up there?"

I digest her worried gaze. "It's a nymph colony."

The moment I say it, our hosts confirm it. The orange lights above go out, blanketing us in such darkness that I can no longer see Katniss's face. Yes, the nymphs have detected us. I also know what this form of "welcome" means, though I've never actually been in their realm. In fact, I've made it a point to stay away.

As her hand locates and grips mine, my blood boils in anger. And, I confess, it rages for other more tantalizing reasons, in certain parts of my body.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"This blackout means they're expecting our company," I explain. "They'll drop a basket down. But there's a ritual cost of entry before they grant anyone access to their colony. We have to give them a favor. We have to…" I swallow. "We have to do something. A gesture for the crowd, so to speak."

"In the dark?" Katniss is baffled. "What the hell could they possibly want us to do in the dark?"

I feel the heat of her palm in mine, the nearness of her body, the weight of agitation in her voice. Her impossibly smoky, impossibly feminine voice.

My answer is meant to sound composed. Instead, it comes out sounding very different when I say, "They want us to kiss."


	10. Chapter 10

**The next full chapter will be up tomorrow, but just this morning I decided to separate this scene. I felt like it deserved its own moment. Enjoy!**

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_Moonlight_

"They want us to kiss."

His feathery words coast through the darkness. They rob me of breath in this blacker than black place, rousing me in ways that make me glad we can't see each other. I feel the heat exploding in my cheeks, swelling in my breasts, and pooling in my stomach. The nymphs' request is wholly unexpected, yet I accept it as real because this is a world where everything is natural no matter how wicked.

_They want us to kiss._

I accept it for other reasons, too. I think about the millions of little moments Peeta and I have shared since he found me poisoned in the forest. I think about his fingers toying with the green silk of my nightgown in the atrium. I think about our night in the palace when I thought he was my best friend and I sleepily clung to him, targeting his skin with my lips. I think of how I couldn't tell the difference between my fantasy and reality, the dead boy and the living boy.

I think about last night when he spied me in the water, how instead of being embarrassed, I felt excitement wondering what he saw, even though I tried to act indignant. I think about the knob of his shoulder against my head as I rested it there. I think about my wet body and his dry one as we sat by the lagoon. I think about how easy it was to tell him about my losses.

I think about how intense things got in the book maze. I think about his head inclining toward mine, his mouth slightly parted, his blue eyes smoldering.

_They want us to kiss._

I think about the silence that envelops us now. In the darkness, I realize the silence isn't apprehensive. It's anticipatory, because this probably would have happened anyway. In spite of the Labyrinth's allure, in spite of my heart being chained to someone else, and in spite of what Peeta has done to Prim, this would have happened eventually.

At least it feels that way for me. I would have ended up kissing him at some point, on impulse or out of frustration. In the lagoon, I was jealous. The jealousy pricked me like needles every single time the conversation slanted toward love or his human mystery girl. Even now, I'm jealous of her.

But I don't know what Peeta's thinking or wanting or hoping for. I'm betting it's not to fulfill the nymphs' request since things were already awkward between us after our near-miss in the Library-From-Heaven-Turned-Hell. And plain and simple, he just doesn't want me that way. Even if we already almost did this, he'd been entranced by the Labyrinth at the time. Not by me. He hadn't really wanted it. Not the way...not the way I did.

_They want us to kiss._

"We don't have to do this," he tries to reassure me.

His gallantry makes my gut twist. It's an obligation for him. I should feel the same way, but what's the use in going there? It's the exact opposite for me.

"We don't have to," he repeats, pissing me off. "They can send someone down to kiss one of us instead."

"They can what?" I balk.

"Don't worry. I'll let them do it to me."

White hot possessiveness kicks in at the thought of one of these nutty faeries touching Peeta. All I can think is, _Hands off, bitches! _

He chuckles nervously. That makes it worse, like he knows the insanity that's going through my head and thinks it's a riot. Like, aww, how cute! Little Katniss has a crush and won't share what doesn't belong to her anyway.

Well, screw him. Screw him nice and hard and from behind.

Dammit, he's still chuckling.

"What's so funny?" I demand. "What? You have no problem kissing a nymph but not me?"

He sobers immediately. "That's not what I meant. I'm fine kissing you."

"You're fine," I repeat through my teeth, my mortification reaching its peak.

He clears his throat, for once incapable of charming, soul-stirring prose. "Nymphs are insatiable. They'll kiss either one of us. I'm just trying to relieve you."

"And yourself."

"No! I'd rather kiss you. Believe me, I'd much rather the first time be with—"

"What?" I gasp.

Peeta goes quiet. His voice had been loud in my ears a moment ago, but his muteness is even louder. It's shy and self-conscious and...holy shit. The realization dawns on me, yet I can't believe it. It's not possible, not when a boy is this handsome, not when he talks like a poet laureate, not with his gentleness, and not with those biceps.

Not when he's a freaking seventeen year-old fae. A male fae who could hook up with anyone he wants.

"Peeta..." I begin gently. "Have you ever been kissed?"

He doesn't say anything. I have my answer. Oh, my God, I have my answer.

Although it stings, I ask, "Have you been saving it for her?"

Again, he doesn't say anything. Again, I have my answer. And it pains me. This boy is throttling me with each new thing I discover.

I've kissed enough guys. Most of them I didn't even like but figured, what the hell, right? This guy might be the one to pull me out of my grief. Which never happened.

Until this moment, I didn't think it was possible for me to want someone who wasn't my best friend. I didn't think it was possible to yearn for a different boy's mouth. But still, the thought rises like steam.

_I want so badly to taste what you've never given to anyone before._

Peeta sighs. I don't know why.

Meanwhile, the darkness is rich, enjoying this thing it's created between us. A warm breeze flaps through my clothes, and my shirt beats against his, reminding me of how close we're standing. I move in even closer. I smell the inexperience radiating off him, merging with the sweet aroma of cinnamon and fresh bread.

He's in love with another girl. I'm hurt that this won't be real. But if it's between a random nymph and me, I'll sacrifice the hurt in order to offer him something good, something honest. It will be my honor. My pleasure.

He sucks in a startled breath when I reach out, locate his face, and cup his cheeks. He lets me. He allows it. When he trembles, hunger grips me, a primal need to make this incredible for him. To rock his world. To own his mouth. To brand it as mine.

Competitiveness. That's also what I feel, because if he wins this game, I want my kiss to stick into his memory and put whatever his mystery girl offers him later to shame. I want to wipe the floor with her.

Peeta tenses suddenly. So I do what I've done before with other boys to get them to cooperate: I explore without asking permission. I trap his earlobe between my thumb and index finger, delicately swabbing the earring stud, round and smooth. Then I continue, spearing my fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. Then, I wind myself against him, humming in victory when his hands find my hips. Encouraged, enticed, enraptured, I tilt my mouth upward and sketch the rim of his jaw with my lips.

"Katniss," he rasps, looping his sinewy arms around the crescent of my waist.

His touch feels impossibly good, seducing me without him even knowing it. I want more. I want _him_ to want more. My throat tightens from how much his willingness matters to me. It's shocking and scary.

Unfortunately, the reluctance is still there. He's holding me but not crushing me. He's following my lead but not instigating. I know why. It's the same speed bump that roosts in the back of my mind. He's as confused as I am. I need to put an end to that right now. Enough is enough.

Dragging my palms back to his face, I hold his head in place, willing his eyes to cross the abyss and somehow find mine. "Okay. Pretend I'm her."

"You're her," he repeats in that gossamer voice of his.

"Pretend you care about me like no other. Pretend that you want me."

"I want you."

"Pretend, after all these years, that you can finally kiss me."

How did our lips already end up brushing? How did we end up murmuring against one another's mouths?

And how is it that he sounds as though he's not pretending?

Who cares?

"Finally," he whispers. "I can kiss you."

Our mouths seal together. My lips are urgent, while his quiver, and I draw from their dewy rims, massaging them thoroughly. With a whimper, Peeta's melts completely, reduced to putty. All thoughts mist, submerging into the opaque nothingness that surrounds us as every nerve in my warm body centers on the feel, taste, touch, smell, and sound of him.

I lick the crease of his mouth, urging his lips to split. When they do, my tongue whisks inside and flicks boldly against his. Peeta's chest hitches in surprise, his mouth widening reflexively and molding with mine as we lap up the combined moisture and the candied taste of melon.

I had intended to build up from something slow and innocent. It doesn't happen that way at all. It's like we've been waiting for this for longer than a few days. We lose ourselves in it. We collapse headlong into the hottest kiss I've ever known.

His fingers drop into the waistband of my leggings and plaster me to him. My hands thrust into his hair and tug, desperate to get closer, to open further. I hear the urgent sound of us drawing air through our noses, our clothes rustling, the tortured moan that drains from him and ripples through me. I take and take and take.

Then he takes back. Tentatively, curiously, he latches onto my tongue and sucks it into his mouth, proving he's a fast learner. I mewl, my heart puddling at my feet. We break apart a few times only to grab each other again, panting into the next kiss.


	11. Chapter 11

**This chapter is dedicated to TomiStaccato and iLoVeRynMar, for inspiring me with their fantastic Everlark dance scenes in "Mockings Hall" and "Saint Peeta." **

**Nod also to the film "Labyrinth" for inspiring me to create my own faerie masquerade!**

* * *

_Moonlight_

Giggles from above wrench our mouths apart. I had forgotten about our audience.

Peeta and I stand there clumsy and gasping, still clinging to one another, his hands having moved south at some point and locating the swell of my ass. I can tell that I'm blushing like a virgin. I wish I could see his naked expression. On the other hand, I'm scared of it, scared of seeing his reaction.

The orange lights flash back on from above. We stare at each other in amazement. His hair is a mess, his mouth sufficiently kissed, his eyes coated in a much deeper blue. We have no time to speak because a basket—like something large enough to dangle from a hot-air balloon—floats down and waits for us. A torch burns from a holster inside.

Peeta releases me and stumbles away. Not looking at me, he swings open the basket's little door and steps aside, allowing me to get in first. My legs wobble as I cross into the vessel. I can still taste him on my tongue, I'm undone, and my panties are soaked. I pray it isn't obvious as we retreat to opposite sides, stealing glances at one another the whole ride up. This isn't awkward at all.

The basket sways. Music floats down to me, the volume increasing the higher we travel. Fifty feet or so up, we stop. This colony eclipses anything I've seen yet. Suspended in the trees, surrounded by a globe of stars in the amethyst sky, is the most expansive, most exotic, most sensual-looking resort known to man. More like _un_known, actually.

Sprawling decks circle dozens of tree trunks, each of them connected by swinging bridges covered in red and orange flowers, with torches blazing to guide the way. Fire pits roar from the center of each tier and sheer paper lanterns in different hues of red and orange dangle above every level.

Clearly, they're not worried about fire hazards. Either that, or it's a faerie thing and these trees are inflammable.

Dancing bodies crowd the deck. Some of the faeries stop to watch us arrive, nibbling the slender tips of their fingers, simpering in our direction. Others just keep pirouetting and touching each other amidst the glinting flames. It's like watching swans party.

The melody of fiddles and flutes greets us, as well as a pair of jaw-dropping hotties that I'm guessing are some form of nymph leaders.

One of them, blond and buxom as a beer-garden wench, reaches out to take Peeta's hands. "Welcome fae and human," she says in voice torn from the pages of an erotic novel. "They call me Glimmer." She knocks hips with the willowy brunette beside her. "And this is my companion, Clove."

Normally, I would question why the mockingjay would be so afraid of these women. But there's something decadently sinister about them. Something magnetic, too.

"Thank you for allowing us passage," Peeta says, offering them a guarded smile. "We're grateful. If you show us the way through forthwith, we won't disturb you further."

"There's no rush, is there? You must stay for a while."

Judging from Glimmer's tone, it's not a request. I'm worried about the official nymph definition of_ a while_. I also notice a number of curvy figures making out with each other in various shadowed corners. I turn away quickly, feeling like I've invaded their privacy, which is a laugh to these people, I'm sure.

"Play with us," Glimmer purrs. "Enjoy our hospitality. You lovely creatures have earned it. That was the most impressive kiss we've seen in a long time. You must show us once more how it's accomplished."

Her gaze rakes appreciatively over Peeta. I'm about to grow fangs when he takes my hand, stopping me. His words are delivered with caution. "As delightful as that sounds, hostess, we require progress more than anything and should continue on."

"So pensive for such a feverish couple," she observes, causing mirth to flutter through the colony. "We'll take care of that. And of you."

All at once, a troop of nymphs ambush us, splitting us apart and giddily dragging us in opposite directions. I call out to Peeta. I hear him shout my name in response, but he disappears into the crowd.

Like kids, the nymphs skip me through a door cut into one of the tree trunks. That's when I realize they've literally built their homes inside them, with windows and furniture. The room I'm forced into has ruby-colored curtains and candles that further hint these ladies are unconcerned with their homes going up in flames, I'm guessing for magical reasons.

In a matter of seconds, they flock around me like hyperactive bridesmaids while I protest and smack their claws from me.

"Where's Peeta?" I snap. "Where is he? What do you want from us?"

Clove studies my figure, her head angled to the side in contemplation. "Have you pleasured him yet?"

"Excuuuse me?"

"It's what you crave. We can smell the need on you."

Okay. That's humiliating. So humiliating that I abandon all pretense of being polite. "That's none of your faerie business."

"You've fallen in love with him."

Speechless. I'm speechless. I shake my head, backing away, my fists tightening. They may be impassioned, but who are these people to assume anything about me?

They're wrong. I'm not in love with Peeta. What I am is in lust. I'm not attached to him romantically. I'm attached to thoughts of his fae cock. There's a serious difference. As pathetic and juvenile and unhealthy as it sounds, no one can ever take Sunset's place.

Yes, Peeta's alive and Sunset isn't. Yes, Peeta has quickly become essential to me in ways that I can't describe. Yes, I could have stayed below kissing him until my lips fell off. Yes, I have a hormonal urge to rip off his leather pants and see what's behind Curtain Number One. But none of this matters because we're from two different hemispheres of reality, without a middle ground to bump hips in.

Also, I haven't forgotten that he took Prim from me.

I want to make it clear: "This isn't love. It's horniness."

Clove checks the status of my fingernails. "Of course."

I want to make it very clear: "It's not. I'll prove it. Go ahead and do nymph things to him. See if I care."

She thrusts a drink into my hand. It looks like juice, but I don't trust it. "It will help," she assures me. "You like peach nectar, no?"

I sniff the contents. It does smell like peaches. I lick my lips, thirsty but still skeptical.

"You can see Peeta after you drink," Clove promises, her satiny eyes daring me to be a chicken.

I remember Rue saying that she and Prim enjoy drinking peach nectar. I fix that thought in my head as I gulp down the contents. The thick, sweet liquid washes through my arms and legs, renewing me, filling my stomach as though I've been feasting for hours. I'm wide awake. I'm satiated.

I feel so good. This room is so pretty. These women are so hot. I'm hot, too. Peeta thinks so. He likes kissing me.

What were we just talking about?

"It's working," one of the nymphs says. The rest giggle. I giggle with them.

Clove fawns over my braid, the incense of her voice coaxing a smile from me. "That's better."

Two more glasses later, I'm stripped of my bow, quiver, water canteen, and clothes. Steaming damp cloths bathe my skin, buffing away my imperfections. My hair is unwound, brushed, and primped. They slide peach lace boyshorts up my legs and elevate my breasts into a matching strapless bra, the lingerie embellished with a scalloped trim. A weightless sunset-colored dress floats over my head, the hem stopping just above my knees. The nymphs retie my boots. They ooh and ahh.

One of them kisses behind my ear, painting me in goosebumps, spiking me with desire.

For someone else.

The instinct of a huntress rises from the ashes. This time, I draw out my question, my voice low and determined, my words throbbing like a pulse. "Where's Peeta?"

The nymphs nudge me out of the room. I step into a place transformed. Into an open-air ballroom filled with rings of bodies that sway in concert, their steps harmonious as they prowl around one another like synchronized birds, their arms stretched out. They glide in one direction, then switch. They bow toward one another and then arch back. They wear masks that conceal the upper half of their faces, some frosted in gold, some capped with feathers, others ornamented with jewels, and still others with long noses that stab the air.

It's a faerie masquerade.

The lilting music has blossomed and spread like a fragrance, more ambitious now than a simple fiddle and flute, growing a heartbeat in the form of a drum, growing fingers in the form of some kind of acoustic guitar. There are many instruments. These musicians are scattered among the decks rather than cluttered together. They dance while playing. They lie on their backs and stare at the sky as they carry a tune.

I'm encompassed by torches that burn brighter, fire pits whose flames tower higher than before, red and orange flowers that have bred and multiplied over the bridges, decks, and cords between the paper lanterns. The blooms sprout from the nymphs' elaborate curls. They're wreathed around wrists and ankles, complementing the cast of flimsy chemise-like dresses that frolic around me, their skirts fanning out in shades of red. Ruby. Garnet. Crimson. Rose. Wine.

I'm the only one wearing something orange. I'm also the only one without a mask. I stand out, which pleases me. It will be easier for him to notice me.

I move forward on a cloud, marveling at the spectacle, how seamlessly the nymphs frolic together, random fingers grazing cheeks and hips, lips puckering, kissing briefly and then separating with wispy laughter. It's like a dream, a very clear dream tucked inside a bubble, as I slip through the mass.

I seek him out, sensing him near, my blood's temperature increasing. The nymphs part gracefully to let me through, not bothering me except to admire my loose hair or playfully snap the straps at my shoulders.

I pay no attention to them. I'm ravenous. I need Peeta.

I find him.

But he has already seen me. In the center of the throng, he's wedged between two nymphs—Glimmer and a redhead—who swivel their lower bodies against him. He matches their movements, a magnetic threesome, yet their gazes are all turned in my direction. He's been watching me search for him, and I can tell he's as hungry as I am, and I can tell that it's me he wants.

He's outfitted in head-to-toe black, including his mask. The only color radiates from his earring and those sapphire irises that no face-covering can dominate. Glimmer clutches his shoulders. The redhead rests her cheek on his chest. Their wanton grins beckon me to claim him, to accept the gift they've prepared for me. And I'm grateful.

Peeta relishes the fit and cut of my dress. He breaks away from the nymphs and stalks toward me, eyes never leaving mine. I meet him halfway. We don't hesitate but simply fall into a series of movements, as though we've done this all our lives and know the steps. We encircle each other. Our feet carry us as the world shrinks to this one place. He hoists me up in his arms. My legs thread around his waist as we keep turning, foreheads stuck together, brow on brow. I go limp in his embrace, keening out loud at the euphoric sensation of his groin shifting between my thighs.

Sighing, Peeta sets me down fluidly, his hand locked beneath my right knee and holding it up over his hip as he dips me backward, so far that the ends of my hair sweep the floor. As he pulls me up slowly, the column of my neck strains, displaying itself to him and earning a faint kiss. My mouth falls open, my nails digging into his neck as a trail of sweat cascades down my spine.

The moment we're face-to-face, I see that his eyes are closed. Encouraged, I drag myself down his entire frame and shimmy back up, my hips jutting to the sides. My hands outline his broad body, from the profile of his spectacular backside to the banks of his stomach to his jawline. Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I gyrate against him, thrusting my pelvis into his and relishing the gasp that leaps from his throat. He mimics the action, catching on fast and grinding himself into me, the friction building up.

Our gazes don't stray, not even whenever a random pair of hands glides by to smooth back my hair or run over his shoulder. There's only him. He's all that exists. He's all that matters. I've never danced like this before, but I'm exactly where I belong. His arms and heat and breath feel like home.

He spins me around so that my back is flush with his chest, and he repeats the same actions I used on him, dipping down, fingers sketching the contours of my hips and legs, then ascending the sides of my chest. My head falls back as his lips play across my neck.

When I can't stand the teasing anymore, I face him, arms tangling with his. Lost in the rocking motions of our lower bodies, we sink and sway. The music keeps getting louder, shuddering through me. I'm flying and swimming and dancing, and I could do this all night.

It's the moan that snaps us out of it. I have no idea if it comes from him or me, but it's so needy that I blink in response. Our gazes connect.

Peeta is gaping. Something about his astonished expression warns me.

This isn't us. He seems to realize it, too.

What exists beyond these trees? We were supposed to be doing something, going somewhere. Someone is waiting for me to save her. But who? I can't remember.

The bubble bursts. And then I do remember. Prim. The Labyrinth. We're still in the Labyrinth. We've been detoured by a delicious yet sinister manipulation.

Peeta and I watch one another. I feel him come to the same conclusion.

A collective hissing jolts our attention. The music has stopped. The nymphs have stopped dancing and are all watching us, countless pairs of eyes glinting in displeasure and suspicion.

And worse, menace.

If they know we've recovered from whatever they did to us, the consequences won't be good.

I swing my attention back to Peeta, hoping he's arrived at the same conclusion. He holds my gaze, and thankfully I see the awareness there. He knows we need to keep pretending. We need to convince them if we want to stay safe.

Wordlessly, we crush ourselves to one another and continue the performance. Satisfied, the nymphs squeal like children, eerily different than the sound the made a second ago, and the music resumes. We do as we're expected and resume our dancing...our grinding. I'm afraid of multiple things. The nymphs. The thorned trees.

And the way Peeta's hips dig into me. We keep our eyes locked, the heat steamrolling up my neck as a fierce expression runs across his face. My fingers grasp his lower back, right over the bumps of his backside, tempted to sink lower. We're doing a commendable job of performing for the masses. Honestly, I can't tell if it's a performance at all.

Half my mind is struggling to find a way out of this mess. The other half is preoccupied with our bodies moving together as if we're trapped inside the same hula hoop.

I remember our kiss. I miss it. I miss his lips.

It's a long time before pulls me close and whispers into my ear, "Trust me."

Out of nowhere, he lets out a staged growl, picks me up, and tosses me over his shoulder like a sack of flour. To the nymphs delight and perverted applause, Peeta lugs me across the dance floor and kicks open the door to one of the tree homes. Once we're inside and he's knocked the door closed, he puts me down.

So now they must be thinking we're about to have sex in here. I get it. It's an act.

That doesn't make the blush go away, though.

"What now?" I ask.

Peeta shakes his head like he has no clue. "I just needed to get us to a place where we could think. They would have swarmed us if we hadn't kept up the charade."

He rips off his mask, chucks it to the floor, and rushes over to a back window. Peeking out, he says, "We can get out here, but once we try to get across the platform or any of the bridges, they'll see us. We need to create a diversion."

"What will they do to us?"

"If we don't stay under their spell and entertain them? They'll keep us prisoners. And they won't be kind about it."

So they'll harm us. Possibly force us to do things or drug us some more.

I wrack my brain, glancing around the room for weapons, but there aren't any. Everything is luxurious in this dwelling, from the furniture to the glittering chandelier, to the box of jewels on a console table, to the savories crowded on a golden tray, and the feminine garments thrown across a scarlet lounge chair.

Instead of doors, gauzy curtains knitted with beads hang from the ceiling to block out open spaces. It's a sexy home. It's even grander than the house the nymphs dragged me into before. It's treated with the sort of carelessness you might encounter in someone who thinks they're important.

"Whose house is this?" I ask.

"Glimmer's, I believe," Peeta answers. "She's the leader, so she'd have the largest home. I took a chance and figured she'd be giddy that I choose hers instead of someone else's to..." He flushes. "Why do you ask?"

Because, as I stare at the lit candles on a table, I have an idea.

"Peeta, make sure that window can open," I say.

"I know what you're thinking, Katniss, but thorned trees are not flammable."

"Okay."

That's what I'd concluded earlier. But that's not what I have in mind.

Peeta checks the window. Once he confirms it can open, he starts blabbering about possible escape plans, none of which I'm listening to. I calmly take up a candle and walk over to the furry rug in the center of the room.

"…and then we can…"

Reminding myself that these creatures are dangerous, I purposefully drop the candle. The rug bursts into flames like a bonfire. Without hesitating, I take another candle and set the lounge chair on fire, and then one of the curtains.

By this time, Peeta has turned and is gaping at what I've done.

I look at him. "Thorned trees don't burn. But everything inside them does."

Once he gets over his shock, he unlocks the window's hinge and we launch ourselves out of it. We hide off to the sideline of the masquerade, waiting in the shadows while the nymphs engross themselves in their dance.

It takes them about five minutes to smell the smoke and notice the inferno blazing in Glimmer's windows.

Chaos ensues. They panic and clamor toward the tree house. We take our chance and run. I'm awarded with a brief glimpse of Glimmer's singed hair. She's not actually burning, but she is pissed.

It seems to take forever, but we emerge from the immediate vicinity, freeing ourselves and breathing in the clarity. Hands entwined, we sneak across the platforms built around the trees.

"What did they do to us? What the hell happened back there?" I manage to ask.

"I don't know," he says, whacking a branch out of the way. "Nymphs aren't to be trusted, and I knew that. I was hoping politeness would enable us to pass through their domain without problems, but of course that was wishful thinking. One minute, they were dragging me away from you, pushing me into a room, changing my clothes, and..." He hesitates, assessing the landscape.

Just then, the mockingjay swoops out of the sky. His appearance does what it always does: It comforts and annoys me. I guess the bird wasn't so frightened of the nymphs that it abandoned us altogether.

The mockingjay caws and flaps towards a bridge to our right, which dangles over an abyss of darkness. As we wobble across, Peeta explains, "I tried to fight the nymphs off, but they're stronger than they look, and there were too many of them. Then suddenly I felt cooperative, they put a mask on me, and guided me into the masquerade."

He's quiet until we emerge from the bridge. "They must have put us into a trance of some sort. I suspect that if we'd danced much longer, we would have never left. We would have fallen in lust with this place and forgotten everything else."

We reach another basket that waits for us on the opposite side of the colony. Peeta scans the abyss below. "The thorned woodland ends here. We can—"

He halts as he turns to me. The memory of our dancing resurfaces. For a moment, we're stunned by what transpired between us. There's no easy way to get past it, so we just climb into the basket. We're silent, bashful, and unable to face one another as we descend.

But I still feel it. I feel the hunger we extracted from one another. Instead of it waning from the nymphs' broken spell, my need increases, amping up the nervousness, predicting that it's only a matter of time before I break, like I did with the kiss. I dare a glance at Peeta and notice his fingers tightly clasping the basket's rim.

We leave the howling nymphs behind, cinders flaking the air, the peppery scent of a burnt home traveling up my nostrils. The orange glow above our heads is no longer from torches and lanterns but from a giant blaze.

I'm in shock at what I did up there. And I'm on guard.

"How long before they realize we're—" I begin before the basket jerks to a violent halt.

We look up. The nymphs are hissing and cutting the rope. The fall from here would be too far to survive it.

Cursing, Peeta climbs out of the basket and grabs onto the thorns. "Get onto my back! Now!"

My arms and legs can't move fast enough. They're wrapped around him just before the basket plummets into the dark. The nymphs shriek in fury and start throwing rocks and branches at us as Peeta grunts his way down the thorns, trying to be quick but cautious. A rock hits my hip but I don't feel it, I'm too paralyzed with fright.

And eternity passes before we reach the forest floor.

"Will they come after us?" I ask.

"No," Peeta says. "Nymphs never leave their colony. It would weaken them."

As we dash off into the woods, I think of the word _weakness_ and simultaneously mourn the loss of my bow and Peeta's dagger. The nymphs had relieved us of our weapons during our wardrobe change. Now, we have nothing.

We don't get far. In the darkness, we step onto a thicket of undergrowth that gives way beneath us. The fall is short but harsh. Peeta and I tumble down a narrow hole that scrapes my elbows on the way. We smack into the ground, where a big fat "Fuck!" darts from my tongue. Bracing myself on my knees, I press my fingers to my temples, looking around and orienting myself.

We're in a cave.


	12. Chapter 12

**If content gets removed, please go to my AO3 account.**

**Musical inspiration: "Untitled 3" by Sigur Rós (instrumental). This melody has a beautiful build-up.**

* * *

_Moonlight_

Peeta and I stagger to our feet. It's a cave sculpted out of colorful rocks—minerals, I think—and expands into numerous tunnels that shimmer in different shades of orange and green, their diminutive flecks winking at us. I wonder if the stud in his ear comes from a place like this.

The minerals dispatch a warm glow that illuminates the cave. In spite of the crystalline but coarse walls, the floor is smooth, with some patches carpeted in moss. But how can any plants grow down here? Does the light give off life?

I shake myself. Those questions aren't important, especially now that we've come out of whatever drug-induced mind-trip the nymphs forced on us.

Peeta checks me from head to toe. He traces my arms, my shoulders, my face. "Are you hurt?"

My elbows chafe from where the rock walls scratched me on our way down here, but I don't feel any bruises or pain. Really, it's his soft hands on my bare skin that affect me more. I worm away from his touch, assuring him that I'm fine while straightening the mess the fall made of my dress, flattening the material over my hips.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Peeta's gaze flit over my neckline. One of the straps has slipped down my arm, exposing the inflated swell of my breast and the trim of my strapless bra. He looks away, red as a hothouse tomato, the exact opposite of the feral fae he'd been on the dance floor. I duck my head and adjust the strap.

The mockingjay tweets from outside the cave. Averting my gaze from Peeta, I lumber over to the gap in the ceiling where we fell through. I stare up at the golden bird blinking patiently from its perch on the rim. A jasmine-spiced breeze sneaks through the opening.

"It's not too deep," I say. "Maybe we can find a way to climb out."

"No," Peeta says, inspecting the cave. "We're here."

"We're where?"

He smiles at me. "We're at the center. These caves are known as an underground route to the bell tower. One of these tunnels will take us there. The mockingjay won't like being underground, though, so we'll have to proceed without him."

With that, he whistles. The mockingjay gives a clipped bird-nod and disappears into the night sky, though I'm a bit sad to see him leave. I'll even go so far to admit that I'll miss our sidekick.

I sag to the ground. I should be thrilled that we're almost there, but all this information does is wipe me out. I feel like I've been stuck here for weeks, not days.

Peeta paces toward me and kneels at my side. The cave's mineral sheen tints his cleft chin orange, his nose green. Gingerly, he plucks a stowaway red nymph petal from my hair, then lets his palm drift down my profile, anchoring my cheek. This is what I like about us. Not the heated awkwardness but fluent caresses that seem more practiced than they should be.

He says, "We can sleep, Katniss. We don't have to go further yet."

Yes. Sleep. Peeta's arms and sleep. That's what I need right now.

As we curl up together on the ground, I wonder if we're delaying for other reasons. Again, I puzzle over what we are to each other. I'm still daunted by the answers, but for new reasons that have less to do with my best friend and more to do with the hopelessness of the situation.

No matter what, the final challenge awaits us. We'll have to break our alliance soon.

The minute my head sinks into the valley of his chest, I stop thinking altogether. I dream of twirling bodies and masks and peaches...

I squint, waking up to the cave's tranquil atmosphere. I flex against Peeta, my nose tickling his neck, my leg wedged between his thighs. We're braided together. His arms encase me like a secret he wants to keep to himself while his mouth rests against the crown of my head, as if he'd passed out that way. It's disturbingly perfect.

So perfect that my eyes sting. Part of me wishes our dance had been real, not some staged trick.

The same goes for our kiss. I'd coached Peeta to pretend I was his mystery girl, and he'd definitely taken me up on it, his mouth desperate from that point on. I'm afraid that kiss has sentenced me for life. I'm afraid that dance has stripped me of all control. Even now, the taste of the nectar lingers on my lips, sweet but tart, like unrequited love.

The peach nectar.

I lift myself off Peeta, hazily recalling Clove offering me a drink of it.

"You're awake," Peeta yawns, stirring beside me, his cute face all scrunched up like a wad of paper. "Did you sleep well?"

"How long do you suppose we were out?"

"Enough and not enough."

Whatever.

Still groggy, I rub the sand of dreams from my eyes and lean back on my forearms, staring into the distance for a moment. "Peeta, did the nymphs give you anything to drink?"

"They tried. I didn't trust them." He pauses. "But now that you mention it, I vaguely remember something. One of them grabbed me and kissed me."

"What the hell?!" I go from zero to red in half a second. "What bitchified-bitchy-bitch—"

"It was swift. It took me off guard, otherwise I would have recoiled. But I somewhat recall her lips tasting strange. Like overripe peaches. Before I could think more of it, I was a goner."

"That hussy nymph must have had traces of peach nectar on her lips. Clove gave me some, which I guzzled down like an idiot. I bet that's what drugged us."

The hypothesis pricks me with chagrin. I need to stop consuming things in this world without being more careful. It keeps getting me into serious trouble.

Some of the odd comments Finnick has made to me surface in my memory.

In the Faerie Court's garden: _Do you like peaches, Katniss? _

At the Labyrinth's entrance:_ Easy as a peach._

My teeth grind together.

_So did Finnick put the nymphs up to that little stunt?_

Peeta sits upright and combs through his hair. "It's a coincidence. Finnick may have a few nymph minions, but he prefers to lead, not drop his tasks wholly into the hands of others. The things he said to you were merely in jest. He likes to tease. Peaches are fruits of temptation, and they come in many guises."

"So my sister and Rue must have drank the Shirley Temple version, while we had something stronger."

"Pardon?"

"What I mean is—wait." I lurch up beside him, my mind clearing, my heart hammering because something's fishy. And it doesn't have to do with the peach theory anymore.

I narrow my eyes. "Just now, I didn't bring up Finnick. Or what he said to me. At least...not aloud."

Peeta freezes.

My memory backflips to the beginning and then sprints through our interludes together. I lick my lips and count off on my fingers. "You found me poisoned in forest, then took me to your house, then showed me that pouch with the antidote. I thought those berries were blackberries, but you said they weren't. They were nightlock."

I meet his guilty eyes. "Except I never said _out loud_ that I thought they were blackberries."

"Katniss—"

"And then on that same night, when I scoped out your ass by the fire, you went all still and gave me this look, like you knew what I was thinking. And you knew I was in the atrium talking to Rue, demanding to see you. And you came to my room that night, somehow knowing I felt so alone. And you showed up just in time to save me from the tracker jackers, knowing that I was in trouble. And there were other times when..." I swallow. My voice is as dry as cardboard. "And just now, just freaking now, I never said a word about Finnick."

Peeta's throat bobs. The lacquer of his blue eyes dims, a fleet of clouds passing through them. And that's when I know he's so busted.

And instead of blurting it out, I stare at him. I stare at him and wave the question in my head like a flag.

_Are you a mind-reader?_

And he stares back. And says, "Yes."

My chest rises and falls. My head pounds as it chronicles everything I've ever thought about him, wondered about him, feared about him, desired about him.

_Desired! Oh, my fucking God, he heard every single dirty thought, every bit of attraction and longing I've felt for him. He knows what I'm thinking right now! He's been spying on me!_

"Katniss, no," he insists, reaching out for my hand

I launch to my feet and stomp away, keeping my back to him, my fist in my mouth. My private thoughts about him may as well have been up on a pinboard. This is my worst nightmare. I'm mortified. I can even feel my toes blushing.

"It's my power, but I never used it against you," he says. "I stopped myself from reading your mind as often as I could, but it's not easy, and sometimes I let my guard down. I never probed your mind to manipulate you."

I flinch at the possibility that he would do such a thing. And yet I believe him. After all we've been through, I can't help believing him. Peeta might want to win this game, but at the same time, he doesn't want to harm me.

The crazy-stupid thing is, I'm not angry at him. I should be fuming, but I'm not. If I could do what he can, I wouldn't have told him either. Not at first.

But now, it's different. I'd thought we'd become more. I'd thought we were...we were...I thought he felt just as connected to me.

_Was that connection not real?_

"Of course it was real," he says.

"Stop doing that!" I say. "Stop reading me!"

"I'm sorry, Katniss. I'm so sorry. I just...when you found out I took Prim, you hated me. But I liked you, and I couldn't bear having you hate me even more. I couldn't. Then we got closer, and it made the lie harder, but I didn't want to risk losing you. Not you."

"Why?" I whisper.

"You must know why. You must know how real this is. You must know the upheaval you cause in me."

I hear him approach, his footsteps beating a tune that matches my heart. My stomach drops as he stops behind me, his breath at my ear, his shadow intersecting with mine on the cave floor. My lids flutter, his presence weakening me, because despite what I've just found out and despite my embarrassment, I don't feel betrayed.

I feel wanted. By him.

The almost-kiss and the actual kiss and the masquerade dance all flood back to me. Yes, in many vital ways, those moments were real. So instead of itching to slap Peeta, I find myself yearning to do something else. Something that's been building for a while, that brought us to this moment.

He won't dare touch me. He's leaving this up to me, giving me the choice to retreat or embrace this pointless bond we share.

I reach behind, take his hands, and pull them forward until his arms loop around me. Our hands form an amulet of interlocked fingers—pale and olive—and sweaty palms that cover my navel. His pulse throbs a steady rhythm against me. It feels like the right rhythm for us, a long-suffering incantation that is finally finding its voice again.

His head tips forward and lands on my neck, the cottony fibers of his hair tickling me. My thoughts open themselves to him.

_I want your mind in my mind._

He rolls his forehead from side to side, not so much listening to me as absorbing me, consuming my silent request. I understand that our need is the same. I'm thinking for both of us, expressing what we're too overwhelmed to say aloud.

_I want your thoughts to be my thoughts._

My grip on his hand refuses to let go. I might be holding too tight, but I'm selfish, and he isn't complaining.

_I want your heart in my heart._

The stud in his ear grazes my lobe. The sensation stores itself hidden places.

_I want your body inside mine._

Peeta's lower lip shivers against me like something caught in the wind, but he doesn't make me wait for his response. "I...I think...I think, deep down, I've wanted that since the moment I held you in bed in the palace," he says.

The cave's mineral colors blend. I turn on my heel. Doing this with him will only disorient me more, but I could care less.

"You mean when I did this?" I ask, stemming my fingers up his chest to the summit of his collarbone, where my mouth makes contact, chasing away his breath.

Emboldened by the feeble noise he makes, I say, "And when I did this?" I taste his throat, feeding off its gravely movements and hiking to the rim of his jaw.

Reflexively, he presses himself to me the way he did in bed at the palace. My God, his whimpers are hot.

"And when I almost did this?" I whisper, rotating my head at the same time he does, both of us somehow knowing to meet in the middle and kiss.

And kiss. And kiss.

Our mouths spread, and we ride the current of one another's lips, tongues crossing the distance and flicking. His mouth reacts to mine, offering itself, reminding me how little practice he's had. I sweep across the bows of his lips and drive my tongue inside. He shudders. I do it again.

My fingers attack the tiny curls at the ends of his hair. His own fingers roam, unable to decide where to land, so blatantly and self-consciously avoiding erogenous zones that I smile into the kiss, giddy and soaked and scared.

I don't realize how much I've taken charge until I'm shoving him up against a glimmering green wall. Our lips are so tightly threaded that it takes effort for him to brace his hands on my shoulders and push me back. He's pink all over, except for his eyes, which are dark as midnight. And shy.

"Katniss," he gasps, holding me at arm's length and thoroughly confusing me.

_Why are we stopping? We can't stop. I don't want to stop!_

He chuckles. "I don't either, but I need to say something first. I need to know how you feel about—"

"It doesn't bother me if you read my mind," I say. "I like it."

It's true. All at once, I like it. The curious side of me wants to use it to our advantage while we explore how our bodies react to each other.

I cock my head. "How does it work? If I just let my own thoughts float around in my head, you can hear them?"

"Yes," he answers.

_I want you naked. _

Peeta groans, his palms getting closer to my backside. I wiggle my hips, letting him know it's more than okay. My need stretches freely across my mind.

_I want you naked right now._

"Katniss—"

_With me._

"I-I've never had a woman."

Those words whip me to attention. He's staring at me earnestly, as if this is a warning instead of a confession. Why am I surprised? Why didn't I come to this conclusion earlier? If I'm his first kiss, obviously he's never had sex. Signs of his virginity crowd his face: lips faintly parted in anticipation, eyes vulnerable and lost and terrified, cheeks ruddy.

If my body wasn't buzzing before, it's on fire now. An empowering thrill catapults through me, along with tenderness and something else warm. He's giving this to me. Dammit, I wish I could give the same to him, but I've wasted that chance. I don't want to waste this one.

Part of me is worried about his expectations, whether he'll like it, whether I'll like it. But it's hard to imagine being with Peeta and not enjoying it. Not when I'm so eager for him that I haven't taken a solid breath since we started this.

I'm not much more experienced than he is, I've only been with one person, but I've touched myself enough to know a little about this stuff. The rest we'll just figure out.

The issue of condoms comes to mind until I recall that faeries can't have children. Next, I consider the rations parachute that floated into the maze from Effie, as well as Finnick's comment in the garden that he would enjoy watching us, and also Peeta's comment in the lagoon about the Court tracking our progress. I've always wondered how much they could see of this game, but never more so than now.

I cup his face. "How often do they watch us?"

"Periodically. Not all the time and not always together. They're a busy lot."

"Are they watching us now?"

Peeta closes his eyes. I catch on that he's reading their minds, the action revealing just how far that antenna of his stretches, but it takes him a full minute to look at me again. "No. Effie and Haymitch are on watch, and they're trying, but they can't penetrate the cave because of the minerals. Effie's furious because we're cloaked. They can't see or hear us."

"Good. Because I'd like to change things for you. For us. If...if you'll allow it."

He nudges his lips against mine. "You have no idea how much I'll allow it."

And so we evolve from _we can't_ to _we will_. The space disappears between us as our hands seek, as he urges my head back and suckles my neck. I yelp and twist away.

Peeta veers from me, pumped to apologize. "What is it?" he asks. "Am I doing something wrong?"

I shake my head because, no, he did nothing wrong. I'm just twitching because of how good it feels.

I reassure him by guiding his hand under my dress and into my panties. His fingers dip into the puddle that has accumulated in the lace, and he mutters an intelligible word, amazement transparent in his features. Gulping, I cover his palm with my own, curling them over me. I demonstrate how to rub, where to rub, how deep to go. He's attentive and picks it up quickly. His fingers hit the roof of my opening, knuckles rapping against me, the pad of his thumb revolving over that one sensitive spot.

Wounded sounds pierce the air. Mine. His.

I encourage his pace, leaping toward a violent end, my vision blinded by white light. I arch back, suspended, spasming. Shooting stars of pleasure dart from where his fingers probe to every other tip of my body.

The colors of the cave return. I mumble nonsense as Peeta kisses my nose. He's looking mighty proud of himself, yet he's uncharacteristically quiet.

We remove our shoes, but it's awkward when I have to hop on one leg to get my boots off. We laugh because it's funny.

I strut backward, curling a finger. _Come here, Peeta._

He tracks my footsteps. I seize the hem of his shirt and pull it off. His chest expands as he raises his arms above his head, then contracts as they fall back to his sides. He's a broad, stone wall. I've got to introduce that wall to my breasts.

My dress lands on the floor. I make quick work of the bra, too, taking in Peeta's reverent expression as I unhook myself. I stand before him in lace boyshorts.

Then nothing at all.

I'm naked. I'm naked in front of a not-yet naked boy.

The air below ground is moist. Every sound we make reverberates. It's an excruciating wait. Does he like what he sees? Am I shaking too much? Does he notice the stubble of hair that I haven't shaved from my legs?

Peeta's looks down at me, his irises melting me. "I've lost words for you," he says. "Nothing is good enough."

My exhale is long. I like not having to speak. I like that I can say what I really want to say.

_Then don't tell me. Show me. Show yourself to me._

When it comes to stripping, he's not as shy. As soon as he pushes the pants down, revealing how ready he is for this, desire detonates in my gut. He's unreal.

In no time, we're clinging and kissing. The first thing I grab is his fantastic fae ass, finally bare for me and just as ripe to the touch as it is to the eyes. I've been wanting to do this since I first met him in his house. Peeta grins into my mouth when my palms cup that ass and draw circles over it, discovering its abundant shape.

Mouths locked, we stumble across the cave to a soft patch of earth and sink onto it. I straddle his waist as he weighs my breasts in his hands and lovingly kisses the tops. I can't wait any longer for him.

_I want to be with you now._

"Yes," he whispers. "Please."

Bracing myself on my shins, I position myself above him, my confidence faltering as I struggle to get comfortable. Suddenly, I feel less competent than I ever have in my life.

But Peeta doesn't allow me to look away. He takes my face in his hands and levels our eyes, his desire growing like an emotional muscle inside me. With a single glint, those eyes remind me we're doing this together. There's nothing to fear. This isn't about perfection. This is about following the hot trail our bodies have left for us, trusting it, and not turning away.

Slowly, I lower myself onto him. Only a fraction, testing the limits.

His pupils dilate. His mouth hangs open as if I've loosened him.

And then I rise. And I descend again, his hardness burning me in a way that makes my eyelids flutter. This feeling is incredible. I need to pull more of it from the shadows.

I sink fully onto his lap.

As I do, he nearly crumbles onto to his back. "Oh," he keens. "O-oh..."

I latch onto the back of his head, helping to keep him upright. Our foreheads press together, brow on brow, breathing labored as we immerse ourselves in the novelty of our bodies being attached. He fills me, reaching a spot I didn't know existed, that had been hidden from me like the core of a fruit. It hurts, but somehow it's a good pain.

Peeta trembles beneath me. It's beautiful to see.

In a voice that's been wrung out, he croaks, "Are you okay?"

His concern, his sweetness, and the trouble he's obviously taking not to shift is sexy. In answer, I begin to move. Biting my lip to stifle a hiss, I let my natural urges guide me, favoring a gentle rocking motion, back and forth.

Peeta sighs over and over. I join him.

The pleasure builds as I circle my waist and roll against his thighs. Everything arouses me, from his hands molded to my waist, to the fine hairs of his legs grazing mine, to the bead of sweat dripping from behind his ear, to our synchronized panting. Arms and limbs and chests crush together and discover a rhythm.

Our eyes stay locked until I lift myself accidentally, breaking our connection and creating a new kind of friction. A new kind of hunger. Intrigued, we explore it. My body rises and falls, becoming increasingly pliant.

He leaves me in control. I have no problem with that. He made me feel good already. And now I want to see what I do to him, as lucidly as possible, without distraction.

I decide to tease, volleying the earlier question back to him: _Are you okay?_

"Oh...Oh, I...I'm...you're so...so..."

_You've lost your knack for words._

"I...uh..."

_Do you like what I'm doing to you? How is it? _

"You feel like everything," he gasps. "You are everything to me."

Peeta. My Peeta. Right here, he's everything, too. So I move harder on him while drawing his lower lip into my mouth. He leans in for a full kiss, but I inch away. He's too far gone to object.

He gives up holding my gaze. His head lists forward onto my chest, clasping himself to me, his brutal whines heating my skin. His nails dig into my hips. His grip flexes, quivers, and then freezes.

And then he comes.

He releases himself on a desperate cry that sails right to my ego. I listen to the sound, still surprised that I made this happen, the knowledge drizzling over me like rain. I catch him as he sags against my breasts, his pulse subsiding into the quiet while I stroke his side.

We hug each other, caught in the aftermath. Although I was doing fine before, I don't know what to say now.

But he does. "I'm happy it was with you," he murmurs.

I think that might be the coolest thing a guy has ever said to me. Yet it's more than flattery. My heart twirls in my chest, a combination of adoration, protectiveness, and yearning. I brush my lips over his temple and grin like a fool.

Then I gasp when he jerks his hips, as though trying something, and what I feel inside me isn't soft like it should be at this point.

I'm shocked._ You're still...you're still..._

Peeta's head tips back. He flashes an adorably wicked I'm-fucking-a-girl smile. "I'm a fae," he says. "We can do this for as long as we want."

To prove it, he starts thrusting. The unexpected jolts spread my legs wider. It strikes me like lightning. We watch him disappear repeatedly inside me.

"Tell me if you like it," he says. "Does this—does this please you?"

I nod frantically.

_Keep doing that. Right there. Right there._

Peeta nods back and continues. He reads my face for hints of satisfaction, though I can't stay immobile. I relocate my nerve, urge him onto his back, and start moving again. Our tempos match. It's like we're so oddly attuned to each other, the connection so intense and...overdue...that it seems we find a common ground we've been searching years for.

My hands span his chest and then link with his, fingers intertwining on either side of his head. I tilt forward, my hair falling into my face as I swivel my hips. Through the dark locks, I watch his eyes roll to back of his head. His abs grind as he goes deeper, goes through me, throwing himself into the effort.

Our delirious moans echo through the cave. We're begging each other to do this forever, but _no, finish this, but yes, yes, yes, oh, I can't, oh, God. It's you, you, you, only you._

"Oh, Katniss," he hollers.

We tense, then burst together like a ruptured pipe. As it happens, feelings I never expected to have for this boy knot in my throat, and they spill from me and converge into one pure thought. A thought that he hears over the din of our high.

_I love you, Peeta._


	13. Chapter 13

**Credits: ****_Sonnet XVII_**** by Pablo Neruda and ****_Labyrinth_**** for the Escher stair room inspiration (image at tinyurlcom./cpcj46h)**

**And now I think you guys have been waiting for this ;)**

* * *

_Sunset_

I have become a man.

I have new eyes and a new heart.

I have an enormous appreciation for Katniss's body. I can't keep my hands off her. I've been dozing beside her, but the moment I arch out of my slumber, my avid fingers seek out the expanse of skin nestled against me. She's a warm, evocative, precious gift of curves. The shadowed orbs of her breasts. The hair between her thighs. The slender shoulders.

She rests on her side, her face hidden in my chest, tendrils of dark hair covering her cheeks. She is my little tree. I drape my fingers across the margins of her body, admiring the tangled roots of our naked legs, glazed in orange and green lights from the cave's mineral walls. I cannot believe this happened, yet I cannot believe it wouldn't have happened. Very little time has passed, but I feel nostalgic already, as though we've reunited in way beyond comprehension. I savor the mystery.

It was a lot different than pleasing myself. Inside her, I could barely breathe much less speak. I would have gladly sacrificed my voice in order to stay like that forever. I would have given her the power to be vocal for both of us, so long as I could remain tethered to her, drawing out her moans.

I had expected to have more trouble, finding the right direction to move, but the knowledge came without effort. It was like a birthmark ingrained on my body.

Afterward, I wanted her again, but she was exhausted. She fell asleep before I did, her palms clasping my backside. She likes that part of me a lot.

I gaze at her with a lazy grin. I adore her quirky vocabulary, her courage, her foolishness. She's unintentionally sensitive. Yet she's hard to break. She's funny without knowing it. When she doesn't overthink, she plays. When she lets go, she reveals her true self.

_I love you, Peeta._

Her confession freed me like nothing ever has. It's something I've never heard. Remembering it, I'm filled with glee.

The memory of us connected, moving and moaning, is a resounding call to action. I feel myself tighten. Now that I know what it's like, I don't think I will ever be satisfied. I must make this count. I want her to wake up to bliss.

My fingers sneak around her waist. Her sleepy sigh is so pure and unsuspecting that it provokes a madness inside me. I dip my head and steal a faint kiss from her lips, then slant my mouth over her chin, her throat, down to the pert domes of her breasts. I'm eager to explore them. They yield to my kiss like dough, the weight of my movements causing her to roll unconsciously onto her back, giving me thorough access as I hover above her. I taste the olive skin, biding my time, rousing her from dreams.

When her fingers dive into my hair, I celebrate. Shifting upward, I feast on her drowsy, blushing face. I see that she feels the same as I do. She regrets nothing.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Hi," I whisper back.

"What are you up to?"

"I'm making love to my silver girl," I answer.

With that, I tilt my head and gather her right breast into my mouth. She bows off the ground, her fingers tugging my hair, pressing me against her. Goosebumps ripple over her arms, matching the ones sprouting in my lower back.

As her legs encase my hips, my tongue flattens onto her and laps at the pebbled surface. I think of the wet chasm below, the dominant position of my body, and where this is leading. I think of all that and double my efforts, not stopping until her voice fills the cave with incoherence.

Dispensing a hungry noise, my lips brush across her chest and attack the other swollen nipple. Katniss chants my name. The reverberation melts like sugar on my busy tongue. My mouth latches and flicks, a hum escaping the back of my throat when she grinds against me. I won't last long like this.

I release her. She gasps as her breast drops from between my lips. I angle my head and kiss that gasp, curling my tongue with hers. But instead of lingering there, my mouth wrenches away and traces her collarbone before descending to her navel. Then down to the spot between her limbs.

I glance up, questioning. Braced on her elbows, Katniss reads the question and nods. I pitch my tongue into her. She throws her head back. Her legs fall open, her backside snaps off the ground, and her smoky whine reassures me. Holding her legs apart, I buck my head up and down, dazzled by the very loud effect.

When she's on the verge of convulsing, her nails gouge my shoulders and hoist me up. She winds her limbs around me. Her impatient thoughts are clear as a spring.

_You. Sex. Now._

"What a filthy mind you have," I muse.

In truth, what she says excites me to no end. It makes me think of roughness and quickness, and I oblige, securing my hips more firmly within the cleft of her thighs. Grabbing myself, I delay in order to locate the dampness, which is much lower than it seems. I pause at her opening as a new idea comes to me.

"There's a sonnet by the human poet, Pablo Neruda. Want to hear it?" I ask, then chuckle at the look she gives me.

_Right this minute? Are you crazy?_

Perhaps. But the question was rhetorical. I know she doesn't care for verse, but I need to give this to her, because the words have materialized now and won't disappear. Neruda's poem is meant for lovers.

My lips travel over her ear, murmuring the lines hotly into the cavern.

_"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_

_or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_

_in secret, between the shadow and the soul."_

My hips shift downward, my erection prying her open, engulfed by her warmth. We both cry out. I suppose I could have paced my entrance, gone little by little, but I couldn't help myself.

To make up for it, I prolong our rapture with hushed words.

_"I love you as the plant that never blooms_

_but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers."_

It takes a great deal of willpower to keep my movements steady while reciting, but I devote myself to it. Flexing my back, I meet no resistance from her, finding I can go deeper each time I swoop in. Katniss's whimpers match the thump of my pelvis, but I can tell she's listening.

_"Thanks to your love, a certain solid fragrance,_

_risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body."_

The poem arouses this girl. As I maneuver inside her, revolving my waist, she widens even more for me. Her heels dig into the backs of my knees, which grind into the floor as I put all of my weight into my thrusts.

_"I love you without knowing how...or when...or from where."_

That line catches like a stone in my heart, and I half-croak, half-groan. But I keep going, sucking up mouthfuls of air that blow insistently into her ear.

_"I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;_

_so I love you because I know no other way  
_

_than this: where _I_ does not exist, nor _you..._"_

My voice crumbles. My hips speed up, striking through her so hard that our chests slam together and her body jolts upward, shocking both of us. I don't stop, I can't stop, I will never stop. I lose my balance, plummeting so far down that I also lose my voice.

The climax buries me like an avalanche, fierce and swift. On the outskirts of my delirium, I hear her singing for me, feel her clenching around me. It propels me forward, no matter how clumsy I am by now, until I drain myself with a force that pulls a broken sob from me. The sounds form a protective ring around us.

Spent, I collapse onto her galloping heartbeat. To catch my breath, my mouth opens against her skin and tastes salt and fire. I hadn't noticed we'd been sweating.

I raise my head, remembering that I haven't finished the sonnet yet. Knotting our fingers and tucking the fist we make between us, I fix my gaze on her.

_"...so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,_

_so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."_

On that last part, I press a kiss to her lips. I brace myself and accept the truth. "Katniss...I love you, too."

A buoyant sigh tumbles from her mouth, small as a crumb. "Really?"

"Really. Always."

"What about your other girl?"

Instead of feeling guilty, I am surprisingly calm. Moonlight is still within me, but she no longer rules my being. My feelings have been strengthened through her, and now they're steady enough for me to let go, to be with someone else. Someone real. Moonlight would understand if I moved on. I would understand if she did.

I'm no longer afraid that if I embrace another, part of myself will vanish. It won't. It just means Moonlight takes up less room in my heart. I have emptied and expanded it in order to fit Katniss inside.

"You're my girl now," I say to her. "My human girl."

She runs her finger over my chest. "While we were together, I didn't think of my best friend once."

"Nor did I think of her."

"Have we said goodbye to them?"

"Yes and no. I think they exist through us. What we have."

She grins. "I like the idea."

I grin back. "Me, too."

We watch each other, allowing ourselves a moment to remember, to adore them, and to grow beyond them. It aches, but why shouldn't it? Even if I'm happy, I am giving something up. I'm choosing. So is Katniss.

Just as I know she doesn't expect me to forget Moonlight, I don't expect her to forget her best friend, nor to stop missing him. Having him in her past has made her who she is, and I love who she is, so it would be remiss of me to expect her to sever that part of her life as though it never happened. I'm grateful to this boy for helping make her into this person. This girl I love.

The peach nectar is powerful. It's enough to fuel us through the rest of the day's journey. Relieved of the chore of finding food and water, we procrastinate a little longer. We touch and kiss and play. Singing _ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump-dump-dump_, I let my fingers crawl up her stomach like an insect searching for her ticklish spots while she squeaks.

Too soon, the cave's surroundings, its tunnels and orange-green glint, remind me that our time ends here. Katniss must understand this, too, because her silence is somber. We both know that only one of us will win and return to the human world, while one of us will remain here. Once we leave this cave, reach the bell tower together and face the final challenge, it will be over.

We dress, stealing glances at each other. As she sits on a rock and laces her boots, her brows pull together. Her head hangs in shame and trepidation. I know why.

I kneel in front of her, take her face in my hands, and watch her eyes close. "We've done nothing wrong, Katniss."

She nuzzles my palm. "We've been down here while Prim's been..."

"She's unharmed. I promise."

"I don't want to feel bad about this."

"Then don't. I still feel the lingering effects of being with you. I'll take it with me."

Her lip trembles. I stay on my knees and shuffle between her legs, wrapping my arms around her. "Listen to me. When we get there, I'm going to lose on purpose."

Katniss veers back and gapes at me.

"I'll make it look real," I say.

"No," she argues, shaking her head, which makes no sense.

"Whatever Finnick's challenge is, I'll pretend I'm trying to win."

"Peeta—"

"But I'll hold back. It's what he wants anyway."

She's crying. "I'm too selfish. I can't. I don't want to leave you here."

"You'll change your mind when you see Prim."

"I'm sorry."

"No. It's me who should be sorry."

The hollowness in me burns the backs of my eyes. It gets worse, and better, when she kisses me like she'll never get another chance. Perhaps she won't. Who knows what will happen next?

This isn't a game anymore for me. I've had my glimpse of joy and need little else beyond that, despite shattered hopes of reuniting with my home and finding that missing piece of myself. I'm willing to give that up. I'm unwilling to do anything different.

She clasps my hand in hers as we navigate the cave. We choose the tunnel that looks as though there's a dead-end up ahead, because things aren't what they seem in this world, and the least likely road is usually the correct one. On our way, Katniss hums a melody to relax herself.

It sounds like a lullaby. One that I know. It crosses the divide and shoves open a door leading to a hibernating space in my mind.

That space hides a memory. A sequence of shiny images passes before me, perhaps real, perhaps not real. A flashing recollection of a willowy woman glazed with sleep. She's standing, walking in her slumber, crossing the street of a dormant town that I identify as human even though I have no way of knowing this.

She halts by a gate. She wants to go in, but a small hand stops her. I cannot see to whom that small hand is attached, but a childish voice singing a lullaby pulls the woman from her daze.

The vision disappears, locking itself with a click from me. Is it possible that I knew this woman and child? Did I just remember something from my past?

"Are you okay?" Katniss asks.

I shudder, realizing that we've stopped walking. "Is that a common melody where you're from?"

"It's pretty well-known. Why?"

"It struck me as familiar, that's all. I must have heard it once."

Indeed, it must have been one of my human memories. I want to tell her about it, but I'd rather not dwell on a part of my existence that I'll never reach. Thankfully, Katniss doesn't ask for more information, because she knows me that well.

Every time we approach a fork in the tunnel, we take the routes that look less promising, basing it on darkness and length and the ominous smells wafting from them. Only once do we have to backtrack. It's like the Faerie Court wants to make the last leg before the fall uncomplicated for us, so long as we know not to judge something by its surface.

Within a few hours, we arrive. We turn a corner and discover a stairway leading up to a hole in the cave's ceiling. Immediately, I know it will take us into the bell tower. To the finale.

I wonder how amused Finnick will be to see us emerge as one instead of at separate intervals. Indeed, a tie makes things more interesting for faeries. Especially vindictive ones like him.

I release Katniss's hand but touch her elbow to get her attention. I've got to say this while we're still down here, undetected by the Court. Even so, I lower my voice in case the stairs are spies. "They know we've gotten close. They know we've kissed. But they don't know what I've decided. I'll do everything I can to make it look like a game with equal participants..." I glance down, needing a moment.

"But?" she prompts.

I glance back up. "But the finale is Finnick's domain. Even though he wants me to lose and wouldn't complain about me throwing the game, he doesn't want it to be easy on me. He'll want this to hurt. I sense something up his sleeve. He'll do whatever it takes to break me."

"Can't you read his mind and find out what he's got planned?"

"The Faerie Court knows I can read minds, and Finnick was once my best friend. He's had plenty of practice knowing how to block me from his thoughts when it's convenient, which is why I never saw any of this coming in the first place."

Katniss brings my hand to her lips and runs them across the bridge of my knuckles. From now on, every time I get a taste of her, I'll have to wonder if it's my last.

I grab the back of her neck and pull her in for another balmy kiss. She doesn't say anything afterward, as though any extra noise she makes might simply get in the way.

I'm tired. I'm tired everywhere.

I realize that I miss my home. My cottage in Hob Forest had always been a welcoming sight whenever I returned to it at the end of a day. As soon as I would close the door, I retired my duty as a forest guardian and set to painting or bread-baking. Life had never been complete, but I did what I could to enjoy myself.

When Finnick and I were friends, he used to come over and drink with me. He was always a happy drunk, always good for a laugh. On one of those evenings, I'd confessed to him about Moonlight. He'd sympathized with me.

Although he's the one who took me from my human life, he'd always done his best to comfort me. Once, he went so far as to apologize for his actions. I could have held a grudge, but it's not in my nature. Like names to faeries, forgiveness is sacred to me. Anything else is unthinkable. Anything else would weaken me, fester inside and spread like an illness, wilting my faith in others. It's not worth it.

Besides, I've often seen within Finnick a lonely soul who did not ask to be on the Court, a soul looking for someone else to bond with, a soul whose love for a girl named Annie was unrequited. I suppose our kinship grew out of our mutual losses. That is, until Annie tried to kiss me, turning Finnick's wrath into a force to be reckoned with.

Yet, I miss my friend. I miss sitting with him in my house. I miss the breezy hours.

But if Annie hadn't come between us, I never would have met Katniss. Despite the bereavement of a good friend, if I'd had a choice, I wouldn't have changed a thing.

I grab the stair rail and say to her, "Let me go first."

As expected, she frowns. "I'm not a damsel."

"Matter of fact, I don't know what you are. Nothing lives up to comparison," I say. "But still, let me go first."

Her expression softens. "We protect each other."

I nod. "We do."

There's nothing more to say. I climb the stairs, counting twenty-four of them, one for every hour of a day, maybe?

When I emerge from the hole and step onto a solid floor, I'm in the stomach of the bell tower, at the bottom. I can tell from the rectangular shape of the room, which rises to a point. I crane my head back to locate the bell, but I only catch a mere glimpse of it.

My view is obstructed by chaos. Such chaos that I step back for no reason.

There's no accessible way to describe what I see.

It's more than a tower. All the way up, it's a network of elongated stone hallways and platforms, all connected by stairs projecting from the walls. A vertical maze of intersecting staircases inclining in every direction: right-side up, upside down, literally twisted to the side. Even the corridors and crossways are slanted.

The accordion patterns are impossible to translate. The grid of stairs makes me dizzy. I cannot orient myself and discern which way is up or down, nor do I have a clue where to look first. It's as though each part was once a loose puzzle piece and, for fun, someone dropped all the pieces in a bag, shook them, and out of that bag fell this one disjointed room.

I turn to Katniss, who should be behind me, but she's not there. Panicked, I glare into the hole. Where is she? What happened?

_Peeta!_

Whipping around, I find her stranded one level above, across the room, blinking at me.

_I followed you, but I ended up here. I don't know how. Peeta, what is this?_

The bell gongs a new hour from above. The brassy sound vibrates into my ears, rattling my teeth and shaking my bones. It precedes another brassy sound. A voice.

"Well now, this is more like it. A little final challenge to finish off my day," Finnick says. He's perched on one of the platforms that's suspended over me. One leg is propped up, the other dangling over the side and swinging playfully.

Resentment climbs up my spine as I glower into those painfully green eyes. I see my old friend as a specter, no longer the person he once was but rather someone whom my hand might pass through if I tried to touch him. Like a blade severs an artery, the vision cuts off my ability to speak.

Finnick's mind is fogged. His lips coil into a smirk, testifying that he knows I'm wrestling with his thoughts, trying to breach them. He lifts a finger, pointing up to the bell. "Better hurry. The clock's already started. Tick-tock."

"Tick _what_?" Katniss demands from her end of the tower.

"This is a clock, precious thing," he explains.

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"It means you both have until the strike of the next bell to reach one another."

One hour. But how does that pit Katniss and me against one another?

My silver girl can always be counted on to waste verbal energy. "We need details, you faerie shit."

Finnick cracks his knuckles. "Haven't you learned anything about being polite?"

I'm not fooled by his cocky attitude. His gaze is one of unmistakable admiration. His endearment isn't fake, it's sincere.

He likes her.

He likes her more than he expected to. He must have been watching her a lot in the maze. He's fond of her enough that he might even be placated if I win, because if she stays, he'll seek her out. He said as much in the Court's garden.

My fists clench. She has to win. And regardless, I don't care that she owes him a favor. He will not lay a hand on her.

"Perhaps if you asked me nicely, I'll clarify your goal," Finnick says.

"What are the rules?" I ask.

"Much better. Since you two have decided to arrive at the same time, I have authority over a final challenge to break the tie. And since it's in my hands, I've created a slight rule change, so to speak. Are you ready?"

Katniss stares at him in disgust.

He says, "If you can reach each other, you both win. If not, you have to choose who loses."

Katniss and I gape. This I never would have anticipated. Yet it makes sense. More than wanting to keep Katniss as his pet or punishing me, he wants to build up our hope, believing we'll never solve this elaborate knot he's created within the next hour—less than an hour by now.

He smells our desperation and expects that we'll fail to see this place clearly. His ego is taking a gamble.

"Like I said, tick-tock," Finnick says, fluttering his hands at us. "Get going, children. Time is skipping away from you."

Katniss and I just stand there for a second, staring at one another.

"What are you waiting for?" Finnick's sneer travels between us. "Come, this shouldn't be too hard. You're both so nauseatingly bonded. I realized this after speaking with Primrose recently and coming to a very unexpected conclusion. Oh, how the dots have connected!"

I tense. Katniss's sister? What could she have possibly revealed to Finnick?

He grins. "Indeed, the two of you. Katniss and Peeta. Two discs of light, two parts of the day. Sunset and Moonlight, yes?"

My heart stops.

What? What is he talking about?

Finnick knows about Moonlight, but why would he...why would he think...why is he looking at me like that?

Slowly, I drag my gaze from his and find Katniss. Her cheeks are ashen. Her mouth is open. Her eyes are wide and stormy and gray. I peer at her from this new angle, the dark hair, the befuddled expression, the longing.

It jolts me in the chest. Just like that, a thousand moments surge through me, moments of my human life. Where I came from. Who I was.

A foster home, a bakery, dirty fingernails, midnight escape walks, a sleepwalking woman, a little girl, a lullaby, friends, games, a green bedroom where I once cuddled with this girl, her love of archery, her love for me, her dark braid.

_You're moonlight. How could I ever make fun of moonlight?_

Moonlight.

Katniss..._Katniss_.

Oh, my God.

It can't be.

Her gaze hangs above me, a lone globe of silvery light that waits through the darkness. Even in thought, her question is a finely-grained whisper: _Sunset?_

I breathe. And breathe. And breathe.

And whisper back, "I remember you."


	14. Chapter 14

**Two more chapters after this, guys.**

* * *

_Moonlight_

I'm back in the woods by my home. I'm kneeling at his grave beneath the apple tree. I'm holding a piece of orange chalk and screaming and saying goodbye and not saying goodbye. I'm loving him while I lose him.

I'm loving him so hard.

Now, I'm spending the next seven years without him. I'm crying myself to sleep. My mother comes back to us, my lucid mother who overcomes her grief and returns to work and takes care of us again. I'm given back my life, my future. It all comes back.

But he never comes back.

My heart turns to stone, but I move on. My sister sleeps with me, it's not the same, but I move on. My mother helps me with homework, she doesn't understand, but I move on. I move on without him.

I make new friends. I meet boys. I kiss boys. I dump boys. I work. I study. I hunt. I paint my nails. I watch movies. I make plans. I dream. I see a therapist.

And one day, I smile. One minute, I laugh. One moment, I forget.

Then the moment passes, but I move on. Because I want to live.

But I never let go. I should let go, but I never do. Part of me still waits for impossible things.

On a warm spring night, that impossible thing finally happens. I'm sent to another world, to a place that I stopped believing in long ago. I'm there to save my sister. Nothing more.

Then he saves my life. He's a fae, new but familiar. He annoys and amuses me. He's kind. He speaks in riddles. He's cute. It's scary.

He lies to me and becomes my enemy, then my ally, then my friend, then...then he sneaks up on me. He kisses me. He dances with me. He gives himself to me.

And just like that, I move on. As I fall in love with one, I let go of another. Only to realize, I never took a second look. Will I ever learn?

Now this: _I remember you_.

Three words. Three words spoken in tandem with my heartbeat and the pounding in my ears.

From across the bell tower, I suffocate. A cannonball lodges itself in my throat. Sparks burst in my chest.

The change in Peeta's face is severe. It alights with recognition, every muscle contorting in pain, in disbelief, in fear. Those irises have sharpened like the points of knives, piercing the distance and chipping away at me. They have never been bluer.

I see him. I truly see everything about him.

The blond hair, still messy from our time together in the cave, the way Sunset's uncombed hair used to be.

The fingers, dirty after being in the Labyrinth, just like my best friend's nails.

Those bright, imaginative eyes that could find me anywhere.

His lopsided gait, more pronounced than it was in childhood.

His habit of quizzically tipping his head to the side.

His voice, aged by years, but still as gentle.

It's him. Without a doubt, it's him.

Shame on me. I'm a blind, stubborn, clueless wreck. How did I not know? I should have always known!

Wordlessly, I call out from my spot on the upper tier. I need this moment. I've fantasized about it. I've hated the world for not giving it back to me. I would trade anything for it.

_Are you Sunset?_

His features uncoil as he steps forward. Maybe he can't speak, or maybe he doesn't want Finnick to hear, but he silently moves his lips.

He mouths, _Yes_.

The memories descend like a meteor shower. My mother sleepwalking to the cemetery gate, my new friend helping me get her home, me bringing him to my house for the first time, us giving each other nicknames, playing together, imagining other lands beyond our own, him grinning, me blushing, us sleeping in my room and listening for the creaks of doors, then searching the woods, and me receiving that first brush of lips beside a blossoming apple tree.

Me watching him vanish. Him dying in some mysterious way.

Peeta. Sunset. Not dead.

Here. With me. Real.

My jellied legs give out. I brace my palm against the wall beside me.

How ironic. We failed to recognize one another up close. Yet separated by a wacky staircase tower not even Indiana Jones could solve, it's awful how clueless I've been. How much my need for rationality blinded me from seeing what was right in front of me.

The rest of the facts burst from the IQ-less piñata that is my brain. Back home, the faerie sights and smells must have been pursuing him after all, not me. And the dreams I had, they were a sign. A message that he was waiting.

If only I'd listened. Kept hope the way he once taught me.

Ever since the night in the Court's palace, when I struggled with the possibility that Sunset might have been abducted, I'd sensed that I was missing one other crucial detail. Something that would have argued that Sunset was, in fact, alive all this time. A detail that I couldn't have rationalized away, that I failed to consider: the painting in the auditorium.

I'd always dreamed of magical lands as a child. But it wasn't until Sunset's supposed death that I slept amidst a very specific scene. One that never changed, recurring in my head throughout the years like a song on loop. An amethyst sky, black trees, and voices beckoning me, telling me that "he" was waiting for me.

The painting had depicted that same landscape.

And that painting had been made by Peeta.

I dreamed of his world, and he painted his world, turned it into a portal for me to enter. Coincidence? Maybe. It was the forest where he lived, after all. It was natural for him to paint it.

But it could have been an early sign, from the very beginning, that I had a connection to this place. The place where "he" was waiting. And the only "he" that I would have thought of was Sunset. There's no way I could have disregarded this fact, if I'd paid more attention.

Peeta gazes at me the way he used to, eyes glimmering, awe stretched across his face. I know what he wants. He wants to ask me a question. Am I Moonlight? Am I the girl he's been trying to get home to? Has he been competing against me _for_ me?

I mimic his action and mouth, _Yes_.

His lids fall closed for a moment, but when he looks at me again, there is a myriad of things. Holding all of them together is love. He remembers me. He loves me. Back home, he never said it, just like I never said it. Hell, we were only ten.

But it's there now. It's there.

I need to reach him. I need to touch him, see his smile, hear his laugh.

I hate this bell tower. How much time has passed?

"Tsk, tsk. This is no time to reminisce," Finnick says, suddenly standing behind me.

I pivot and glare at him. "You knew about us?"

"Didn't you hear me the first time? I didn't know." Finnick grins. "Prim told me."

My stomach rolls. "Prim wouldn't...she wouldn't..."

"I knew Peeta's human nickname was Sunset. He told me when I took him as a child, and later he confessed to me about a girl named Moonlight. I didn't know you were that same girl until your sister filled me in when I visited her and Rue in the palace. Primrose loathes me, of course, but I was hoping to learn more about you. You're intriguing, and I know how to spin words in order to get information. Once she started talking about your childhood, well, details began to surface."

He backs me against the wall, ignoring Peeta's shouts, and braces his hands on either side of my head. "You're not what I expected, precious thing. I feel your influence on me."

In the background, I hear Peeta's feet pounding across the stone floor and surging up one of the staircases. Then stopping. My eyes flit over Finnick's shoulder and see Peeta frozen in an unreal position that makes my jaw drop. He's standing sideways, in mid-air on one of the sidelong staircases, defying gravity and clearly confused by how he got there. Solving this maze is going to suck worse than solving a Rubik's Cube.

Freeing one of his hands, Finnick traces my chin to get my attention. I slap his fingers away.

He smirks. "I've a mind to celebrate if you lose. I might be compelled to do anything for you, so long as you obey me."

"Get away from her!" Peeta growls.

Finnick twists toward him. "Now you know how it feels to have the one you love stolen from you."

"I never touched Annie."

"I can't promise I won't touch Katniss."

That does it. My fist cracks against Finnick's jaw. He staggers, swearing like a faerie sailor, while I wrench myself past him and dash to the nearest staircase. At the top, I pause and meet Peeta's anxious gaze tilted up at me from below.

_If we reach each other before the hour's up, we'll be together. We can go home._

"We can go home," he echoes.

We stare.

Then we run.

Behind me, Finnick barks that I still owe him a favor once we're out of this maze. And that I'd better not forget that.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his favor. Fuck this fucking staircase tower with its fucking bell and its fucking sixty-minute time limit.

"Forty-two minutes," Finnick trolls, as if to correct me.

From below, Peeta hikes the sideways staircase while I hop down the one leading in his direction. When I get to the bottom, where we should intersect in front of a hallway, he's not there.

"Katniss!" he shouts.

I circle around. He's now on a level above me, on the opposite side of the room! How is that possible? He was nowhere near there a second ago.

_Peeta, what do we do?_

He points at me. "Stay there. Don't move!"

I nod, but it's impossible to keep still. I prowl the corridor, watching him traverse the tower, up and down stairs, turning in and out of hallways but constantly ending up in spots where he shouldn't logically be. Sometimes he's overhead. Sometimes he's a couple of levels beneath.

Finnick cuts him off twice. The first time, he emerges from a corridor, wheels around the corner and blocks Peeta.

"Clever tactic," Finnick says. "But it's incorrect, little fae."

Hurt shadows Peeta's face. He shoves the asshole out of the way and keeps going. But the second time, Finnick successfully delays him. Before my eyes, on a platform at least thirty feet off the ground, he literally prances upside down along the surface, then hops over the rim and lands right-side up. He gets there just as Peeta means to head through another sideways passage.

I don't like this. I don't like Finnick being near Peeta. I cry out to him, but he doesn't listen.

"You're ruining the game by being the only player," Finnick warns.

"Why have you done this?" Peeta asks.

"I told you. You took love from me. I have the right to take it from you."

"You already did that years ago when you took my freedom."

He flinches. "Point taken. Though we needed you for this world, so I was doing my home a service. Your imagination is brilliant."

"Yet I never once held it against you. We traded secrets. We grew together."

"I know," Finnick says, sounding rueful and oddly affectionate.

"Maybe if you'd _hoped_ rather than _expected_ Annie to like you, she would have. She as good as told me that. Just go to her and be generous for once."

Remorse pinches his features. He says nothing.

Peeta stares at him. "I'd never take love from you. You deserve it, too."

"And you believe this because..."

"Because you're my friend."

Such a simple answer. But aren't the most meaningful ones the simplest? I'm sure he has said this to Finnick before, but I would bet it was lost on deaf ears. And that had been before all of this. Before me and the Labyrinth.

Even now, when we're on the brink of losing each other for a second time, Peeta still considers Finnick his friend. He's declaring it at a moment when it should be the hardest thing to do. Such a simple answer. Yet it's all about timing.

I watch this knowledge distort Finnick's face. I see the guy who was once Peeta's closest companion, the one who robbed him of me, but also the one who gave him comfort and made him happy here. The vision is there for an instant. Then it's gone.

Without a word, Finnick steps aside. He clears his throat. "Thirty minutes."

Peeta watches him for another moment, then barrels down the stairs. Finnick chants out numbers with less enthusiasm than before. Twenty-two minutes. Eighteen minutes.

I'm losing patience just standing here. I can't take this.

_This isn't working, Peeta!_

Not giving him a chance to object, my legs spring ahead. We lose ourselves in the tower's twists and turns, passing over and under each other, thinking we've made it at every junction only to find ourselves on a completely new level or hall or staircase. Far from one another. Going backwards instead of forwards. Shouting each other's names.

Sweat puddles in my armpits. My thighs burn, adrenaline pumps through my veins, my feet turn to leaden blocks. I recall the sour taste of nightlock and the hypnotic smell of the blue flowers in the forest. I'm running out of breath. Minutes pass.

Minutes. One hour. Tick-tock.

My heels grind into the floor. Frowning, I take a second look around. I abandon rationale in this tangled up place and accept it as is, devoid of explanation or rhyme or reason.

How would Moonlight see this place? She would believe in it despite the mystery. She would treat the steps as pieces of a spectacular game. She would count them. She would admire the shapely bell above.

Which strikes every hour. Like a clock.

A clock. I point to each stairway and count. There are eleven of them.

"Katniss," Peeta yells. "What are you doing?"

"Eight minutes, children," Finnick chimes.

Eleven stairways. Positioned, at least from this perspective, at every hour of a clock. Eleven hours.

Where is the twelfth? Where would it be?

_What_ would it be?

My head tips back to the bell. Straight above. Twelve o'clock.

Tick-tock. This bell tower is a clock.

I catch Peeta's gaze._ We have to reach the bell!_

At this point, that would mean heading in different directions, away from each other. But that's what we do. He really is my Sunset, because instead of questioning me, he takes off. We're a team again, like we used to be. That hasn't changed between us.

Apparently, our tactic disturbs Finnick. His background idiot-noise fades, along with the rest of his presence as I concentrate on scaling my way to the bell. Each time I take a path pointing toward the tower's peak, the route works with me, peeling away its veneer and bringing me closer to the brass beacon. Purple light breaks through the open windows surrounding the bell. My footsteps rap on the stone floor.

As the hour closes up, I sense the bell straining, prepped to ripple.

I feel him so close that tears erupt from my eyes. At the top of the final staircase, I totter forward on rickety legs, my calves vibrating. The bell is there, nestled inside an alcove. I wipe away my crying fit with the back of my hand, since the last thing I want Sunset to see is my snot.

But then I don't care about that anymore. Through the blur, I see blond hair. He's out of breath, clutching his stomach, standing on the opposite end of the floor. Wheezing, his very blue eyes cross the distance. They find me.

We're here, but we can't move. We stare at one another's ghosts. I'm ten years old again and being handed a dream.

"You're Moonlight," he says.

"You're Sunset," I say back.

His mouth lifts into a wounded smile. His feet begin to move. It breaks the spell.

We launch ourselves across the divide. I'm sloppy and wild as I leap into his strong arms, my chest slamming into his, my legs encircling his waist as he hoists me into the air. I hold on tight, thinking I will never, never, never let go. Our heads fall onto one another's shoulders, our bodies jolting from the tears.

I cry out his name, "Oh, Sunset! Sunset, Sunset, Sunset!"

"I'm here," he weeps. "I'm here."

"You're alive. You're alive, oh, god, you're alive!" And then, "I love you, Sunset. I love you!"

_You're alive._

_Your heart._

_It's beating._

How often can you say these things before you believe they're true? Never enough. Not for me. He's alive. I've earned the right to say this until I lose my voice.

He grabs my cheeks and pulls back to look at my streaked face. I touch his neck and jaw and mouth and brows. I want to collect everything about him and seal those things away and rediscover them slowly.

"I remember everything," he whispers. "It's you."

I make clogged, jerky noises but manage to bob my head. "I thought...no one ever found you, but I was alone and...and I buried you."

"You did that for me?"

"I was your family. I know you didn't think you had one, but you had mine. You had me. You've always had me."

"Shh." He brushes his nose against mine. "I told you, didn't I? I told you I'd come right back. I was on my way."

I lose it again. I kiss him, tasting games and midnight walks and my bedroom pillows. And I taste his last kiss, the one he gave me in the forest when we were ten, the night he disappeared and took my imagination with him.

Breaking away, my mouth plasters his face with wet kisses, so clumsy that he returns them with sniffly laughter. We lean back and stare. We float inside a bubble, just wanting to look at each other.

Finnick pops the bubble. Peeta and I turn as he swaggers across the landing, watching us carefully, studying how we're wrapped around each other. If he weren't a gargoyle, I would believe his thawing expression means he's had a change of stone-cold heart.

Peeta releases me to the ground, nudging me behind him. I slip in front anyway, positioning myself as his shield. Grunting, Peeta gets between Finnick and me again. Frustrated, I wiggle my way back to front-and-center.

"You can fight over who gets to protect whom all you want, but it won't change a thing," Finnick says, his voice quieter than I've ever heard it.

Peeta and I won, but I still owe Finnick a favor. I'm guessing that's where this is headed.

Until I hear Peeta swear under his breath. The faerie monarch must have opened his mind to him. Whatever lurks there isn't in our favor.

"I'm impressed," Finnick says. "A game well-played. However—"

"However?" I repeat. "However nothing. The rule was—"

"That rule change is revoked. Or more to the point, it _never was_. Only one of you can win. You'll have to choose."

The first thing I register is that he's not as triumphant to say this as I would have expected. The second is that I've fallen backward against Peeta. The third is the toll of the bell piercing the air, twelve reverberations thrusting through my eardrum.

Peeta anchors me to him. He waits until the bell stops shrieking, then grounds out, "The Faerie Court agreed to this deception? It's cruel. It's pointless."

Finnick gets defensive. "The Labyrinth is my challenge to you, not theirs. I might not have been allowed to manipulate the maze without them, but I'm allowed to design the finale as I see fit. Just as long as you two have an equal chance to win."

I fling myself into the memory of meeting the Court in their garden. I'd questioned whether they would keep their word about the outcome of this game. Finnick had given his reply in earnest.

_We keep our word when we give it._

I can't recognize my voice as I say, "That's not fair! You told me faeries keep their word."

He looks away, green eyes stapled to the ground. "Did I actually _give_ my word for the rule change?"

That memory fizzles. No, he hadn't. To this, I suffer from three different bodily reactions. My stomach reels. I'm going to throw up. I'm going to pass out from the pain of my heart splintering.

Either that, or I'm going to grow talons and shred Finnick. My skin has been doused in kerosene and lit into a raging torch.

But it's not me who attacks him. It's Peeta. He torpedoes past me and barrels into Finnick. They slam onto the floor. Peeta wrestles him down, using more effort than he needs to considering the faerie doesn't fight back, doesn't even make a sound.

I stare. Peeta straddles him and repeatedly pounds his fist into Finnick's face. Three blows, each punctuated by a rustle of clothing, each worse than the next.

The fourth one breaks my trance. That isn't my Peeta. That isn't my Sunset. My Sunset would never retaliate like this.

"Stop!" I reach Peeta and seize his arms. "Stop it. Peeta, please. Stop!"

My cries reach him. Peeta freezes, chokes on his breath, then deflates like a balloon.

Finnick crawls out from under him, wiping the blood from his mouth. It's strange to see such a strong being wounded. Though I would have expected much worse from the force of Peeta's punches, which reminds me how resilient these beings are. It's a wonder that I had any effect on Finnick when I socked him earlier.

As much as I want to gouge his eyes out, to make him shatter the way he just shattered me, I wouldn't actually do it. My father once said if you fight fire with fire, the flame never goes out, it only gets bigger.

That isn't the way to handle Finnick. Besides, he looks half himself right now, sitting there and staring at his lap like a scolded little boy. "I think I'm proud of you," he says to Peeta.

"Shut up," Peeta says, reclining into my chest. "I don't want your admiration."

"Too bad. You've always had it. You think this was just about Annie?"

That curve ball strikes Peeta right between the eyes and causes him to wince.

Finnick laughs humorlessly. "Do you know what it was like thinking my only friend betrayed me? To think you cared so little?"

"I told you I didn't—"

"I know. But you were always too good to be true, and I never believed I deserved you after taking you from your home. I thought, how could this fae forgive me to such a degree? It's what I wanted, but I can't say I ever understood it. You've often puzzled me." He lowers his chin. "Even so, you were unhappy over your fate. You ceaselessly wished to be somewhere else. Away from me."

I get it. It must have been easy to convince himself that Peeta's closeness to him was an illusion. It must have been easy to convince himself that Peeta wasn't perfect when Annie came along and favored him.

Has Finnick ever been loved by anyone? Faeries don't have families, no parents or brothers or sisters. Sure, they have friendships and passions, but what if you believe you've lost that as well?

He hides behind a curtain. I know that curtain. For years, I've stashed myself behind it, pretending to be more invincible and stoic than I really am.

Peeta swallows but doesn't respond. I doubt he has enough space inside him to deal with the rest of Finnick right now. I know this from the way his features crumble. He twists his face into the neckline of my dress, breathing deeply. Then he gets up and turns his back on Finnick.

Peeta tries to pull me with him. I resist, staying on my knees. It can't end like this.

I reach over, take Finnick's limp but graceful hand, and beg. "Please. Help us. There has to be a way."

For maybe the only time in his life, he blushes. "I'm sorry, Katniss. There isn't."

"But the Faerie Court can amend the rule that I go back, so why can't they amend this? They have the power."

"Yes, but we can't let both of you go. It isn't done."

"Why?"

"What explanation would satisfy you, Katniss Everdeen?"

I lurch to my feet and retreat to the bell. My face falls into my palms. No. Just no.

Peeta turns me around and urges me to look at him. When I do, he forces a smile. "Katniss."

I know what he's going to do, and my plea is feeble. "No."

"I should have expected this. I was too crazy to reach you, as he knew I would be. I didn't see through it, but...it will be okay."

I shake my head wildly. "No."

"I got what I wanted. I got to see you again."

"No, Peeta!"

"I love you."

"No—"

"I will love you forever."

Weeping, I cling to him. I run my fingers through his hair, remembering his shaggy curls from our childhood and dreading the moment when I will have to let go.

The breeze changes direction, and I smell flowers, and I feel the ground soften beneath my feet, and I feel my clothes change. When we pull back, we're in the Faerie Court's garden, with its checkered lawn and massive bushes sculpted into yellow and lavender flowers. The amethyst sky spans over us.

We're clean. We're dressed in the clothes from when we first entered the Labyrinth. We're still holding each other.

We're not alone. Surrounding us are Haymitch, Effie, Cinna, Rue, Buttercup. And Finnick. Their expressions are ceremonious, I guess. And there are other faeries, hundreds of them, elegantly dressed, some parading around, others gazing at me and Peeta in admiration.

"Congratulations Victor," Cinna says. He approaches, clasps my shoulders, and gives me a sympathetic look. "We've come to see you off."

I grind my teeth. The faeries have gathered to view the latest runners of the maze, have they? Our goodbye is not meant for public display.

"Katniss," Cinna says before I can bark at them to go the fuck away. "You will have your time alone with Peeta in a moment. And then we'll bring your sister out to accompany you home. It's only a minute for us to honor you, brave human girl."

Everyone in the garden applauds. Holding me from behind, Peeta buries his face in my shoulder, perhaps to tame me.

I'm nevertheless pumped to shout when I see the olive-skinned man.

He's sitting in the distance, beneath a bush sculpted into a dandelion. Unlike with Peeta, I was lucky to have many pictures of him after he died...or after I _thought_ he died. He's checking his bow. He's older, but I would know that concentrated scowl anywhere. It's my own. I inherited it.

I stumble through the crowd and stop in front of him. "Dad?"


	15. Chapter 15

_Sunset_

So much gained and lost in so short a time. My love has been returned to me. Even though I didn't know it, her friendship and kisses and body reunited with mine, and in an entirely new way. I've remembered who I was as easily as a person rediscovers the sunrise after months of not paying attention to such an ordinary thing. It's forgotten in the course of daily life and then, one day, reconsidered, revisited. And while it looks the same as it always has, the sight is startling. Like a deep-bellied laugh or the taste of a summer fruit after a cheek-sucking winter. Always in existence, but always new.

In the bell tower, my memories had risen like one such sunrise. Within an instant, I recalled the _pings_ of the register at my foster family's bakery, the smells of car exhaust and freshly-mowed lawns and burnt toast. I remembered meeting a girl.

Awareness doesn't feel as strange as I thought it would. I'm more settled within myself than I've ever been.

I wish I could say the same for Katniss. I wish we could just be happy in this moment. I wish I could erase the disappointment she's about to experience.

Around us, fiddles and flutes and drums play. The ticklish white lights squeak with laughter as they chase one another through the garden. Some of the mockingjays have left their atrium to join the festivities, their wings cutting through the purple sky. Members of the Faerie Court socialize with guests while casting us varied glances of intrigue, respect, and pity. The Court does their best to distract people who want to meet us.

Finnick isolates himself from the crowd, perched on the balustrade of a terrace in the distance, adrift in his own thoughts. My knuckles are sore from punching him. I don't regret it.

Meanwhile, Katniss stands in front of the man she calls her father. I'd followed her across the garden, and once I got closer, I recognized him as the hunter faerie who always keeps to himself, living as a hermit in Hob forest. I don't know him very well, but there is no doubt he's her father. Katniss once told me that his disappearance was the reason her grieving mother was sleepwalking that night, so long ago. He's part of the reason Katniss and I met.

They have the same steel-cut irises and unyielding cheekbones. They have the same hobby, too. He's so busy fussing over his bow, checking the dexterity of the string and fretting over its aging spine, that he doesn't hear her address him at first. Her shoulders are pulled taut and her fingers are splayed at her sides. I'm standing behind her, unable to see her face, but I can imagine what it looks like.

I refuse to read her mind. It's never been fair to do so, but especially in this moment, it would be wrong.

I know what she hopes anyway. Just as I know she won't get what she wants.

She lowers herself to one knee. She tips her head up and pleads, "Dad. Look at me."

Finally, he does. "Oh, hello."

"Hi," she chokes.

"You must be the human girl everyone has come to see."

She nods. He waits for her to say more, then frowns, seemingly uncomfortable from the weight of her gaze. He lifts the bow. "It's not as fine as it used to be."

"I-I have a bow, too."

"Really? Are you an archeress?"

"You taught me...I mean...you're alive."

He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. "As far as I know."

"You look the same."

That puzzles him even more. "Compared to what?"

"What are you doing here? How did you get here? When did you get here?"

"I know we're gathered to honor the maze's latest tributes, and I tried to arrive on time, but the invite came late. I'm not used to leaving my house. I hope I haven't offended you."

That's when understanding strips Katniss's words of hope. "You don't you recognize me, do you?"

The man blinks. "I'm sorry. Should I?"

She makes a strangled noise and reaches behind. _Peeta! Sunset! Help me, please!_

I kneel and take her hand, slipping my free arm around her waist and resting my forehead against the back of her neck. I will not let her crumble. I will not let her go. I never have before, and while some things are gone forever, my loyalty to her will never be one of them.

I'm worried that her despair will erupt into tears and truly scare the man off. That isn't how things should end between them. Dammit, I wish he hadn't come to this event. It would have been better if she hadn't seen him only to realize she was now less important to him than the weapon on his lap. She shouldn't have to see the abyss reflected in her father's eyes, their history wiped clean from his face.

I sense her collecting the tears for later, when she doesn't have to worry about being embarrassed. Instead, she manages to say, "I'm K-Katniss. My name is Katniss Everdeen. And this is Peeta Mellark."

_He may not know us, but I love you both. I want to introduce you._

I lift my head from her neck and do my best to smile at the man. "It's an honor, sir."

"Fae Peeta. Yes, I think we've met before. You're a forest guardian. And Katniss Everdeen**—**such a nice name. Congratulations on running the Labyrinth. That was a very brave thing for a human to do."

"I did it for my sister," she answers. "Her name's Primrose."

"Primrose? That's pretty, too." He turns to me. "I'm sorry both of you could not win. We were all told how much you wanted to return."

"I'm not sorry anymore," I say. "I've been rewarded in greater ways."

Katniss just stares at the man, ignorant of the unease it causes him. I'm about to distract him with a conversation when Finnick appears beside us. The edges of his long coat flap like a set of wings. He clasps his hands behind his back and nods to Katniss's father, who sets down his arrow and rises respectfully.

Katniss and I follow suit. I grimace at Finnick for interrupting.

"I see you've met our victor, my good hunter," he says.

"I have," Mr. Everdeen answers. "She must be talented."

Katniss mumbles to the ground. "I had good teachers."

"This human is skilled in many ways," Finnick praises, his eyes more sober than I've ever seen them. "In fact, I heard from her sister than she has a mighty voice. I say we hear it."

His request sweeps across the garden, catching everyone's attention. The suggestion is met with delight and claps of encouragement. Katniss grabs my elbow, stopping me from taking a threatening step toward him. What's this trick? How dare he ask out of nowhere for Katniss to perform in front of her father and a bunch of strangers.

Finnick levels us with a repentant grin. He lowers his voice. "A song, precious thing. As a favor to me."

I'm disarmed. A favor? This is the favor he wants? Why would he choose such an innocent one?

He catches my gaze, sending a quiet message to Katniss and me. It cracks my mind open like an egg. I recall the mirror promenade in the Labyrinth, when I saw myself as a child, when my reflection made the oddest comment: "Sing to her."

_Sing to her._

The words skip like stones across the rushing brook of my memory, then plop to the bottom and settle there. They were the first words I ever said to Katniss. They roused her mother from her sleepwalking haze.

Finnick explains, "Your sister recently told me about a special memory in which your lovely voice healed your mother, back when you were a child. Primrose admitted she wasn't there at the time, but it's a moment you shared with her later, one she never forgot. She spoke of it as though she really was there. I should love to be healed by you, Katniss Everdeen." He raises his arms, gifting the guests with his charismatic smile. "Wouldn't we all like that?"

Cheers ripple through the garden. Rue dances with excitement. Effie says, "Oh yes! A parting melody to see you off. And don't be shy about your inferiority, my dear. We're a gracious audience."

Haymitch rolls his eyes but welcomes the change of atmosphere, going so far as to bow at Katniss. "Let's hear it, girl."

I realize what Finnick is doing. He may have been confining himself on that terrace, but he must have been watching our trio closely and deduced the situation. Perhaps he also heard her say the word, "Dad."

He's offering Katniss the chance to resurrect her father's memory through song. I don't know how to feel about this. Grateful? Forgiving?

Katniss seems to understand. She searches my face. _Should I?_

It's a risk. It's a long shot for Mr. Everdeen to recall anything.

I amend the favor slightly. "Sing to him."

_To him._

She smiles. She sings.

Her voice is a clearer than the Labyrinth's bell. It intimidates the nymphs. The mockingjays stop to listen. The white lights cease their banter and freeze like stars. Cinna closes his eyes. Haymitch is startled. Effie glances everywhere but at Katniss, feasting on the guests' reactions instead. Buttercup links himself around Katniss's calf and purrs.

She keeps her head down, pink spots dotting her cheeks, and people evidently mistake this pose for humbleness rather than fragility. She puts her whole body into the lyrics, caroling the lullaby from her childhood. I remember the way I felt when I first heard her, like my heart had sprouted from a seed.

Mr. Everdeen stares. Intrigued. Impressed. Nothing more.

I don't want Katniss to look up and see it. But when she's finished, she does look up, she does see it. While everyone indulges her with an ovation, including her clueless father, her silvery eyes turn to stone.

_Peeta, it didn't work._

I wrap my arms around her. She leans against me. I smell apples and pine, feel her hair on my chin, her spine rising and falling. Above us, the purple sky darkens and a chill causes the giant floral-shaped bushes to shudder. I watch her booted heel dig into the checkered grass.

As the guests go about their levity, dancing and laughing and teasing, Mr. Everdeen says, "I've never heard a human sing before."

"Maybe you have," Katniss says. "But you don't remember."

"Well, I'll definitely remember this time. That was beautiful."

"Th-thank you."

Finnick bows his head. No matter how much my knuckles ache, I appreciate his gesture.

He clears his throat. "Katniss, it's time to go. Your sister is on her way, and Peeta may accompany you to the portal."

"Goodbye, archeress," her father says. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

She blurts out, "Are you happy?"

He startles at the desperation in her voice, then considers the question as though it isn't completely random. "Yes. I am."

"Good," she says. "That's good. That's good to know."

"Thank you for asking." He regards me. "What a polite human, eh? The Court must be sorry to lose her."

"Me, too," I say.

Katniss sucks up her tears and twists away. Her forehead burrows into my chest. _Get me out of here!_

Cinching her to my side, I guide her through the rainbow-colored mass, clenching my jaw each time we're detoured by well-wishers. Every faerie acts as though we've been entertaining them, that we volunteered for this, and that the maze has been a playground rather than a threat.

The unforgettable moments will forever spin in my head like a potter's wheel. But there were also dangers. Such is the nature of the imagination.

Rue is doleful as she hugs Katniss. Cinna rests his hands on her shoulder and whispers in her ear. I'm familiar with his body language when he feels sympathy for someone's plight. I suspect he's apologizing for everything that's happened.

Effie straightens out Katniss's dress and hair. At any other time, I'm sure Katniss would swat her away, but she's too hollow to retaliate. Wiser Haymitch keeps his distance, merely saluting her with his glass. Surprisingly, Buttercup rises on his hind legs, sniffs her wrist, and offers her a farewell lick. A generous action from him.

Finnick guides us beyond the garden to the dock by Seam Lake, where we first crossed over on a boat. Transport from here will take us back to Hob Forest, back to the place where she arrived through the painting. Katniss retreats to the veranda's edge and stares at the water reflecting a shower of golden trees ahead of us.

"We'll bring your sister out shortly," he says to her. "She would have been at the gathering, but Rue insisted that you'd prefer a private reunion."

Katniss scoffs but doesn't acknowledge Finnick, nor the absurdity of the statement. She hasn't had privacy for any of her reunions so far.

It takes him a while to face me, and even then he can't meet my eyes at first. The breath he releases sounds like an old, dusty thing. Unused for decades. "Peet, I..."

I wait, impassive, while I remind myself that my original actions were no less selfish than his. Unintentionally, he gave me my memory back.

He says, "If I could change this, I would, Peet."

"If you had, I wouldn't have found Katniss again," I answer neutrally. "But don't take that the wrong way. I'm not thanking you."

"I don't deserve your friendship. Or Annie."

"You might learn to someday."

He gives me a half-bow and, because he just can't resist, winks at me. I watch his lofty form seep into the darkness, his coat swatting at his legs as he moves.

Katniss and I are alone now. Surrounded by fountains and shielded by drooping leaves, this is our first moment of solitude since the cave. Our first moment in seven years as Sunset and Moonlight. Some winged creature whistles gently from above. Stars poke holes in the cloak of purple sky. Everything below that sky shimmers in its own way.

Including her. My human girl. My little tree. The breeze rustles the hem of her tunic and turns it into a sail. She twists her dark hair over her shoulder and coils it in thought, giving me a hint as to how it would look in its signature braid. A sight that I will unfortunately never see again. Along with other things that will never happen, like more games and shared jokes.

What I wouldn't give to have simple talks. I think of the poem I recited while making love to her. I want my hand to become her hand, as Neruda had written. I want to take that hand and live a selfish life.

I approach her, halting an arm's length from her body. "Moonlight," I say, stopping when the smooth pillar of her back begins to tremble. From there, my confession spills out. "I've rehearsed this moment a thousand times, with a thousand different voices. I've imagined a thousand reactions from you. But now I don't know what to say. I don't know what to choose. Not once did I ever picture speaking to your back."

My God. She actually chuckles. It's incredible.

I chuckle as well. I wish I could say I'm in no hurry for her to turn around.

_Kiss me, Sunset._

I twist her in my arms. My fingers dive into the cloth of her tunic and tug her against me. With a groan, my mouth draws her lips apart, my tongue molding with hers. A whimper tumbles from her throat while a gust of humid air passes from her mouth into mine. Her hands grab fistfuls of my hair, angling my head to the side, inciting a much deeper kiss.

I back her up against the balustrade. It's a frenzied, fumbling embrace, with no allotted time for shyness. My hands refuse to stay put on any one spot. I want all of it.

All this time, her feelings for me never died, in spite of the boys that I know have come and gone. I've read her enough to learn she's had experiences, none of them satisfying, each one of them compared to me. I'm saddened for her and selfishly pleased for me.

Somewhere amidst the depth of our kiss, moisture forms on my cheek. I pull away to find tears washing down the sides of her face. My lips taste them, ridding them from her skin before they travel along the downy flesh of her neck. Her nails fight their way into my shoulders. Her passionate sigh fuels my kiss, urging my mouth to cover her collarbone and worship it.

Catching my breath, my lips brush hers once more. We drink in each other's features, her fingers outlining my ears and chin. The touching never stops.

"I should have known who you were," she lectures herself.

"That's the irony, isn't it?" I say. "We were so closely connected, so much so that I had flashes of you, yet I couldn't even read your thoughts of the past and make the connection. Your willpower was that strong."

"I'd like to give Irony a punch in the face."

We laugh quietly. Perhaps I expected something to be different between us now that the veil has been lifted. But nothing is different. Finding out only seems to add another layer to my feelings.

Her expression withers. "My father..."

I cradle her face into my chest. "I know. I'm sorry."

She speaks against my shirt. "You've met him?"

"Once. It was informal and brief."

"You couldn't have known who he was anyway."

Mr. Everdeen had supposedly died before I met Katniss. Over time, his memory faded like mine. Had we been friends, there's still no way we would have made any sort of connection with each other.

Katniss leans back. "What's his life been like?"

"All I know is that he spends much of his time alone, but his reputation precedes him. He's said to be a magnificent huntsman who has a kinship with animals and a startling voice."

"How did he get here?"

"I wish I could give you details, but that's not how it works. Everyone's story is different, and this world is too big to know all of them. I believe his skills made him attractive to this world, so I don't think he stumbled here by accident. Still, it could be any one out of thousands of faeries who brought him here."

"He loved to read. He loved stories."

"You and Prim must have inherited his sense of the imaginary."

"I think we did."

We listen to leaves surfing the air. I kiss her forehead and then hug her for as long as it takes until she moves onto the next question.

"Who used to call me in my dreams?" she asks. "After you vanished, I heard voices when I went to sleep. Was that you?"

"No, that was you. That was your intuition sensing where to find me."

"Until my rationale stopped me from hearing it," she theorizes. "And in my dreams, I saw this world. It was, like, the same exact landscape in your painting. The signs were always there in front of my face."

"You probably dreamed of it for the same reason your intuition called to you in slumber. For the same reason I retained a glimmer of you in my memory: that's how tight our bond is."

"That's probably why I also detected the smells and sounds Finnick used on you when we were kids. I smelled the blue flowers and heard the music trying to lure you away. They followed us everywhere."

"You noticed those things?" I ask. "At the time, I thought they were just in my head."

"And I thought they were just in _my_ head."

I explain the rules about names in the faerie realm. How Finnick had allowed me to keep my real name, but that in exchange, he swapped the nickname she'd given me, leaving it behind in the human world. How I still managed to recall the name Sunset even after I lost my memory.

She confirms that everyone in town had indeed thought my name was Sunset. We conclude that Katniss was the only one who believed otherwise because, again, our bond has such a resistant power.

"We have quite a link, silver girl," I say.

"Is that normal, fae boy?"

"What is normal, really?"

Katniss frowns. "How did you not suspect I could be Moonlight if the portal**—**the painting**—**was placed in your hometown and I came through it? Didn't you think to ask me if I might at least know a girl called Moonlight?"

I sigh. "I didn't know what my hometown was called or where it was. Doorways don't give us that information, only bits and pieces of the surrounding area, enough to give us a sense of what kind of portal to create. Which is why I knew Prim was in an art exhibit. I love art and took it as a good omen. We never know where people come from unless we ask. I didn't _think_ to ask where you or Prim came from."

She opens her mouth. I shut her up with a kiss. I'm in no mood to explain away everything.

"Katniss!"

We break apart to see Prim rushing toward us across the dock. She's carrying Katniss's orange backpack.

I smile, recognizing Prim now, all the same features of her six-year-old self having swelled into a charming face. Her blond hair bounces against her shoulders. She looks healthy and unharmed, though her pace suggests she's been overwhelmed in more ways than she can count.

With a cry, Katniss sprints toward her. The sisters collide, gripping each other and mumbling nonsense. I look away to give them privacy. I hear them pull apart. A flurry of apologies and assurances follow as they talk over one another. I'm uncertain of who says what.

"I'm sorry." "No, I'm sorry." "No, I'm sorry." "No, I'm sorry." "Are you okay?" "Are you sure?" "Are you fine?" "Are you hurt?" "Are you lying?" "Are you okay?" "Are you okay?" "Are you _deaf_?"

Prim's voice reaches me. "Sunset?"

I glance up a second before she throws her arms around me. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God!"

I don't deserve the embrace, but I return it for all I'm worth. The minute she jumps back, eyes widening, she bursts. "How are you alive? What are you doing here? Are you the boy Katniss ran against in the Labyrinth? Oh, my God, I didn't recognize you before because, well, the minute I got here and saw you I fainted. But now that I see you again...oh, my God!"

We give her an abbreviated version of the story. When Prim teases her sister about not recognizing me right away, Katniss flushes. It hasn't taken Prim nearly as long to realize who I am.

"Prim," I say, lowering my head. "I'm sorry...for taking you...I...I'm...sorry."

She's quiet for a moment. Then her hands are on mine. She wills me to look at her, and I see forgiveness there, pure as a new day. "I understand."

She squeezes my hand. I don't know what to say.

She jokes, "Technically, you competed against Katniss for Katniss. Wow."

Our chuckles are cut off by the arrival of the boat. I take Prim's hand to escort her onto the bobbing vessel.

_Stop, Peeta._

Katniss's silent request baffles me.

_Let us go alone. Stay here and wait for the boat to come back for you later. Please. _

I'm about to refuse when she shuts her eyes, then opens them again. _If I have to look at you while I leave, I won't be able to do it._

My heart breaks. The fragments dry up and scatter to different parts of me, to corners that I can no longer reach.

Prim must translate our expressions because she the only one to move. She wraps me in another hug, lamenting that none of this is fair. I murmur that I will be all right, that I'll miss her, but that I won't forget her this time. She pecks my cheek and then heads for the boat.

My human girl flings herself at me and whispers, "Will you look after my father?"

"You don't need to ask."

"Prim didn't mention him. I guess she didn't encounter him on the way here. I don't want to tell her that he's forgotten us. Maybe it's better if she doesn't know."

"Maybe. You will know what to tell her once you're home." I frame Katniss's face. "Moonlight."

She speaks through her teeth. "Tell me you weren't lying to Prim. You won't forget us."

"I won't. I promise. Now that I have my memory back, our bond won't let it fade. Don't ask me how. I just know this."

"Does that mean if I stayed**—**"

"You have a mother to return to. A sister to grow up with."

"Hear me out. Does that mean if I stayed, I wouldn't forget either? I'd remember our past."

"Yes. As long as we were together, you would remember. That's the power of such an enduring connection. We're rare breeds, but we exist. That's why Finnick thought it was possible your singing would revive your father. Our ability to connect like this is in our blood. We've inherited this ability to love fiercely and hold on, most likely from our parents. It was still a long-shot with your father, but it was worth a try."

A sob escapes her. "I don't want to go."

"I don't want that, either. But you will go. For others."

"I love you so much."

"I know." I kiss her and kiss her and kiss her. "I love your hands because they've touched me. I love your eyes because they've seen me. I love your mouth because it has spoken my name." And I kiss her weeping mouth some more. "Be brave. Be strong."

I let her go. Or she lets me go. I can't be certain which of us steps back. For her, I keep my expression steady and dry. She stands at the edge of the boat as it floats down the lake, never looking away from me, her thoughts cycling in my mind.

_Brave. Strong. Always._

When she's gone, I sink onto the nearest surface. Everything stays the same. The fountains behind me still pelt water into the air. The sky is still purple. The only differences are the sounds I make as I cry.

My eyes are burning by the time his shadow consumes me. Confused, I look up into a pair of familiar gray eyes. Not hers, though.

"My daughter," Mr. Everdeen pleads. "Where is she?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Musical inspiration and lyric credits: "Wills of the River" by First Aid Kit.**

**See author's note below!**

* * *

_Moonlight_

I keep glancing at Prim's sandals. They're secured between her toes, the heels dangling and rhythmically flapping with each move her horse makes as we trot through the forest.

_She's here. I won her back. Don't look away from her shoes._

If I so much as peek at the black hook trees or blue buds, I will lose it. We've arrived back in the forest where everything began. The giant steeds were waiting for us on the other side of the lake, positioned in the same spot where they dropped me and Peeta off just days ago.

I feel the weight of Prim's worried gaze. We haven't talked much, except for when she admitted that she would actually miss Rue and Buttercup. She made friends with them. She's unharmed and lucid. She's going to be fine.

I'm broken.

Somewhere in this forest is Peeta's cottage. My busted heart won't be coming with me. It's already gone, detached from my body and resting beneath the covers of his bed.

He's not only my Sunset. He's my sunrise. He's my hope.

At least we both remembered each other. At least we had that.

"I wish you could stay," Prim says.

That's my sister, willing to risk a life of sisterlessness for me. I could never do that to her. I got what I came here for. She'll walk through our house's front door again, and I'll be there with her, but I'm not sure where I belong anymore. All I'm sure of are her sandals.

When we reach the meadow where we crossed over, the horses kneel for us to get down, then steer around and gallop into the woods, their tails whipping the air. I tip my head back. I wonder if blue sky will still seem normal to me now that I've known a purple one.

A hollow frame hovers in mid-air before us. It's the painting's frame from the auditorium. This must be the portal. It wasn't there before, or maybe I hadn't really been looking at the time.

"Do you think anything will be different when we get back?" Prim asks.

I shrug but consider all the things ahead of us. Movie theatres and junk food, final exams and parties, text messages and small town gossip. I want to crack the frame over my knee.

Then I picture Mom's weepy face. My bow and quiver in my room. The tire swing in our backyard.

Latching onto those images, I reach for my sister's hand. We lace our fingers together and step forward.

"Katniss, wait! Primrose!" a voice calls out.

We freeze. Only one person in this enchanted world has that lisp. I heard it about an hour ago in the Faerie Court's garden.

My sister and I whip around. We stare as our father runs toward us. He isn't the foggy man I met earlier, but rather the one I remember, the one who could recognize us blindfolded, merely by touch.

Prim sprints toward him, shouting, "Daddy!"

I'm paralyzed, my gaze narrowing on the sight of them wrapped around each other. Is this an illusion? Did my singing crack him open and bring him back?

It isn't until my father looks up at me and offers his free hand that my skepticism dies. I fall into him, clasping my family to me, our tears and laughter ringing through the trees.

My father pulls back, but Prim and I cling to him the way we used to as children. He absorbs the years' worth of changes he wasn't there to witness.

He beams. "Look at you both…"

"You're here," Prim gushes. "You're really here."

Dad and I exchange a glance. It's like nothing has changed. In that one look, we agree not to tell her that we saw each other in the garden.

"I'm here," he says. "I've always been here."

"They took you from us?" Prim asks.

"They did."

"How did you know we were here? I thought humans had their memories wiped out."

"Some things are more powerful than magic." He smiles. "It seems our family has a deep connection. It's uncommon, which I suppose makes us an uncommon family. We're graced. That's all you need to know."

"Then this is where we belong," my sister blurts out. "We belong together."

Our father frowns. Love and pain rain down on me.

"Prim," I warn. "Mom."

No way. There's no way to remain in this dimension and leave her behind, all alone, never knowing what happened to us. I know what that's like. Prim does, too.

My sister blanches. Her face droops in evident shame.

"Unless…" I waver, my insides buzzing from a sudden idea. "I mean, she's part of this family. If we're so connected, she should be able to get here, too." I turn to Dad. "She used to sleepwalk to the cemetery where you're buried. Maybe it wasn't just a mental thing. Maybe this world was calling her."

And then my singing had stopped it. It's possible.

"Can you lure her here?" I ask.

"Yes!" Prim says. "She'll follow the call. I know she will."

Dad rests a hand on each of our shoulders, a gesture that I know all too well. "Girls, I want nothing more than for all of us to be together. I want to know how your lives have been, I want to know everything about you, and I want to see you grow up more. But if you stayed here, do you realize what you'd be giving up? A human life."

Prim shakes her head. "I don't care—"

"That means children. You couldn't have them here. Neither of you."

This fact doesn't bother me. At least, it doesn't right now. But maybe it would someday, maybe it would bother me a lot. Not to mention school. I like school. And what about college? What future would I be giving up?

I made a small life back home, a comfortable life. I know the world I came from. I don't know this one, at least not enough.

But I know the people in it. The important people.

My future could hold many things, either there or here. I need to trust whatever comes my way. Life can be good again, and while it might not include the things I expected, it will still include family. My whole family.

And Sunset.

My sister is another story. She flinches. She wants to be a mom someday. Is she even old enough to grasp how much of a sacrifice this is? This isn't a decision to make on the spur of the moment, but it's all we have.

Her eyes dart to the picture frame. "Love is here, isn't it? And friends? And you guys?"

My father hesitates. "Yes, you can have those things. Is it enough?"

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," I say to her, even though the effort sucks the life out of me. "We…we don't have to do this."

As I gaze at my sister, the way she holds herself upright, she seems older. "I want to do this," she says.

I stare at her, then twist toward my father. "I won't steal humans."

He chuckles. "Not every faerie has to. There are plenty of others who do that."

"Will we forget who we are?"

"Not as long as we stay together. Our bond will protect you from that."

His answer brings me back to what Peeta had said. How our rare but unbreakable bond would keep our memories alive.

The purple sky glazes Prim's blond hair and my olive skin and my father's tunic. The blue buds smell sweet, like any flower in the human realm does. It feels like it could be home. Not a perfect world, but no more perfect than the one on the other side of that frame.

I've never been so scared, but I'm okay with that. Inside, I'm heavy with questions. "Where will we live?"

"Where do you think?" Dad says, smoothing my hair from my face. "I have a home in the woods. There's room for you both. Maybe Cinna can help me expand it, if I ask politely."

"Do we need permission to stay?"

"The Faerie Court has allowed you the choice to leave or stay. It's what you fought for. It's up to you. They're certainly not going to complain."

"Will I, you know, get some kind of power?"

"Eventually. It takes time. If you're at all like me, you'll develop a special kinship with animals. Maybe they'll look up to you. We can hunt together. Would you like that, Katniss?"

My father said my name. He said my name!

"I want to be a healer like Mom," Prim says. "Maybe I can do that here. We can learn faerie medicine."

He asks us one more time if this is what we want, if this is what Mom will want, and after thinking about our town, our school, our friends, our house, and everything, everything, everything, we say yes. And it's no question what Mom would choose. There have been other men, but in the end, it's always been Dad. It's always been the four of us.

Our father instructs us to face the painting, and our hands link into an unbreakable fence. His moist palm is the only giveaway that he's nervous. "Hold tight. Sing with me."

_Sing to her._

Together, we flow into a lullaby. The one tune we all remember, the one I sang when I was ten and desperate to get my sleepwalking mother away from the cemetery, the one Sunset encouraged me to sing. I smell that strange floral aroma as it carries the tune through the painting. I hear the strum of a fiddle, even though there's no musician nearby. These sensations unearth themselves unexpectedly, encasing our lullaby and sending it out to the human world.

We need so badly for her to hear us. We need to believe that she can cross over. We need to trust that she'll come.

I close my eyes. The lyrics ring from my chest and ripple through the forest. I sing louder and more clearly than I ever have before, uprooting the lullaby from inside my belly and letting it skip off my tongue.

"Robert…"

It's the loudest whisper known to man. The clouds in my voice break. The music stops. Life stops. And the rays of Mom's voice burst through, brightening the grass and the jeweled colors of this world.

There she is.

Stumbling.

Toward.

Us.

She is made of us. She is Prim's blond hair and my tentative movements and Dad's beloved expression. She's wearing sweats and a greasy, insomnia-styled bun coming apart at the seams. Eyes frothy with exhaustion, she studies us in maniacal, blissful, skeptical disbelief. She probably thinks she sleepwalked right into death.

Her poor gaze can't stay on any one of us for too long before moving onto the other and then back again. My father blinks, and I realize it's because he hasn't heard his human name in years. I wonder what his new faerie name is.

He lets the sound of _Robert_ wash over him, and then he says her name back. "Violet."

She lands on her knees. We meet her there, flooding the grass with our feet and shadows, crushing the blue buds with our shoes. We braid arms and legs together. She clings to Prim and me while tipping her head back to gaze in wonder at my father, who holds her face close to his. It's amazing. It's unreal.

It's real.

"You," Mom says, mesmerized, "And you, and you."

"And you," Dad says, kissing her forehead.

"I don't understand. Am I dreaming?"

He shakes his head. She begins to sob into his chest, and into Prim's scalp, and into my shoulder. We hold each other. I listen to my family cry.

I smell happiness. The smell is chopped wood from my father, mint and herbs from my mother, and peaches from my sister.

"Girls," Mom weeps. "I thought…" Her hands do a thorough check of us, making sure we're not figments or the beginnings of mental deterioration. "You disappeared for days. I looked for you. I looked everywhere."

"We're sorry," Prim says.

"I looked but couldn't find you! Where have you been? I heard you singing, then all of a sudden I was walking toward…and then…what is this place? Robert, I…" She frowns. "Your hair is longer."

"So is yours," he answers.

"I've never seen your hair so long."

"You always made me cut it."

"We thought you were d—"

"All in good time," he promises, speaking against her temple. "It's okay, my love. This is happening. You found us."

Mom nods, not fully understanding, I'll bet, but also not caring. She keeps playing with his hair. It will take her longer than this to get over the shock and accept that she's not sleepwalking or in a coma or on drugs.

Once the haze wears off, I have a feeling things will be awkward for our family. There will be shyness and frustration, but hopefully laughter as well. We're different, and we'll keep changing, but we're still Everdeens. We'll grow back together.

There's so much to tell, so much to relearn. Like he said, all in good time.

I'm tired of doubting. I've done that enough. I may be Katniss, but I'm also Moonlight.

"Sunset," I say to myself, but not quietly enough.

Three heads turn in my direction. Prim's face bounces with excitement. "Go to him, Katniss."

_"Him?"_ my parents repeat at the same time.

"Him who?" Dad asks, his brows magnetizing together.

While my erratic heartbeat renders me speechless, Prim informs our mother, "Sunset's here." And then to Dad, "His other name is Peeta."

"That fae boy?" Something must be scribbled across my face because his arctic expression melts. "Oh," he says.

Prim shakes my arm. "Katniss, go!"

If this weren't a theatrical reunion, I would already be speed-racing toward Peeta's cottage—with or without permission. Instead, I feel my eyes flit between my parents like a pair of windshield wipers, silently pleading with them.

I won't always be this submissive. Especially when it comes to Peeta.

Mom touches Dad's arm, a gesture encoded with unknown meaning, one that she regularly exercised on him in the human world. Other than my best friend, I don't think there could be a more beautiful sight.

Scratching his jaw, Dad tells, "Um, make sure Peeta escorts you home—_our_ home—at a decent hour. He'll know where it is."

Before he can even define what "decent hour" means, I'm up and vaulting into the woods, down the center path that the mockingjay first led me through.

kpkpkpkpkp

The floral breeze kicks up my loose hair. The closer I get, the wider I feel my smile get, the more I laugh out loud, the more I squeal and hoot.

This lane used to only go straight. Now, I discover a cobblestone walkway arching from the route. A grid of moss sprouts from between the stones.

I jog down that walkway and gasp as a cottage appears beyond the trees. I make sure to get a better look at it this time, the vegetable garden, the wooden door, layers of ivy covering the façade in green over the first two floors and then blushing into red over the pitched roof and chimney. It's the kind of place we used to imagine as kids.

Muted light seeps through the windows. He's returned from the Court's garden. He's home.

My heart goes berserk as I approach the door. Hesitating to knock, I comb through my split ends and scrutinize my wrinkled outfit, wishing I had a pretty dress on. Something to impress him. Something to make this even more special when I tell him that I'm staying. That I'm his.

I feel like such a damn girl.

_Come on. This is Sunset. He's already seen me. _

_We've already done it. Twice…no, three times._

A distinct tweet salutes me from above. Tilting my head, I find the mockingjay poised comfortably on the chimney. I'm looking forward to figuring out what all his little gestures and movements mean.

I smile at him. "Thanks for all your help."

The bird titters. I guess that's as close to wishing me luck as he can get.

The doorknob rattles as I twist it open. Inside, it's quiet. Disturbingly quiet.

I hadn't really looked at the place before, but as I step into the corridor, I see how charming it is. The orange color of the walls. The dark wood-beamed ceiling. The circular rug in the center, the threads woven together to give the illusion of a watercolor painting. Above it, a round table balances a clay vase of blue flowers.

Framed art pieces decorate the walls. Abstract paintings on canvas. I feel both acceptance and stubbornness within them. Rebellion and appreciation. Loss and faith.

The corridor curves open to different rooms. I spot a doorway leading into a rustic kitchen, where dried herbs hang from the ceiling. It smells recently used, like rosemary and baked rolls.

It's the crack from a fire that directs me. I follow the sound and halt outside his bedroom. I remember this place. I woke up in it after being poisoned by nightlock.

I scan the navy velvet curtains, the plump bed and its rumpled blankets. Everything looks peaceful…until I inspect the floor. Fragments of an easel litter the room, as well as shards of pottery.

I grip the strap of my backpack. My gaze pivots to the bulky, tufted chair by the hearth, where the toe of his boot peeks out from behind the base. And as I move closer, I see him. He sits in the chair, hunched over, elbows on his knees, crazy-sweet face hidden his palms.

_Peeta._

His head snaps up from the safety net he's made of his intertwined fingers. When he speaks, his voice is as coarse as sand. "I don't want you to see me like this, Katniss."

He must think I'm here to say goodbye one more time. That maybe I couldn't resist.

Setting my backpack on the ground, I move around the chair and kneel in front of him. As we gaze at each other, the flames glint off his red-rimmed eyes. It's a sight I have to erase quickly.

_I need you, Peeta._

"Katniss," he says. "You shouldn't be here. Please. I can't handle letting you go a second time."

I was right. He does think I'm here for one more goodbye.

"You'll have to handle it," I say, then quirk my lips into a half-smile. "Because my dad expects you to bring me home at a decent hour. Not ten minutes into our reunion and he was already giving me a jacked-up faerie-style curfew. Can you believe that?"

Peeta blinks. I take his hands in mine and stare up at him, communicating with my thoughts everything that has happened. As I do, his expression transforms from emptiness to something set out in the sun. I think we both could scream and smash more things, this time out of happiness.

But then his face contorts with guilt. "I gave up hope. I thought your father went after you and Prim in order to say goodbye. I didn't consider that this might change everything."

"It has, though."

"You're staying?"

"Always."

"Really?"

He asks this over and over. I nod each time, which I think is the best thing I've ever done in my life. He grabs me and crushes me to him, our crying squeezing out the quiet in this room.

He presses his forehead to mine. "I've missed you every day."

I'm choking on my words. "Me, too."

"I'm sorry I never came back. That night we went looking for your mom. I'm so sorry I left you there—"

I frame his face. _I love you._

He shuts his eyes as I repeat the words to him again and again, an _I love you_ for every morning I didn't get a chance to say it after he disappeared, for every night he wasn't there, for every time I tried and failed to replace him with someone else, for every hour I've been here not knowing, not freaking _knowing_, he was the one beside me. _I love you_ for every person who should have cared about him but didn't.

He kisses me. It's so clear that he's Sunset by the way he feels and smells. We press into one another. It's a deep, slow kiss. It dries our eyes. My lips part, a sigh drifting from my throat at the taste of his tongue, warm and spiced and ethereal. It stirs my insides like a spoon.

If we had stayed together in the human world, we would have been building up to this for years. We would have talked about it in advance. But it would have still happened unexpectedly, without plans, on one simple night when we found each other in the dark, our arms empty and needing to be filled.

I think it would have happened under that apple blossom tree.

Instead, it happens in this room.

Not breaking the kiss, Peeta is out of his seat and on his knees in front of me. Our fingers dive into each other's hair, holding as tightly as our lips. I've never been shy before, not even the last time we did this, but I'm shy now. This is like the first time all over again.

Splitting apart is the only way we'll get our clothes off, which is a really important step to getting what we want. My lips part from his, and we swap breaths as I lift his shirt over his head. He removes mine, the light dancing off our bodies, swelling with blushes and plenty of energy. I hug him to me, inhaling the skin at his neck as he reaches behind to crack open the fastening of my bra, sliding the material down my arms, releasing my breasts against his chest.

I go to work, and his pants find a spot on the growing pile of clothes. Naked, still on our knees, we touch. He says that his favorite parts of me are the backs of my thighs and my collarbone. My favorite parts of him are everything. Especially his ass, which I waste no time grabbing.

Peeta throws his head back, reading my thought and laughing. I love hearing him like this.

_Your laughter turns me on._

He smiles, teeth and all. I think I'm smiling back, but I can't tell for sure, because the world is all him. There is nothing else.

"I want to know what pleases you," he says. "I want to know everything."

_You already do._

"It's been seven years. There's more to you and me now."

_We can learn together._

"That sounds good."

_I strongly suggest we hit the ground running, don't you?_

"That sounds even better," he says, capturing my mouth again.

From then on, we say nothing. We feel everything. We become a _you and me_ in every possible way.

We make love as Sunset and Moonlight.

It starts with him laying me backward on the furry rug beside the fire. His head dips to my neck, kissing the long road of skin there, his lips as fine as the fibers of a paintbrush.

It continues with my parted legs. His weight between them, his hand on my face, my hand on his hip.

It deepens with his first slow thrust. Our eyes reaching out to each other, our gazes never wavering, not even when my mouth gapes open or his eyelids flutter in bliss.

It builds up with him moving gently inside me. My knees rise high over his waist. My fingers anchor onto the back of his moist neck.

It escalates when our pace quickens. It crests when our bodies, locked so well together, launch off the rug. We remain suspended like that, bowed together and clinging, until our shuddering cries find gravity again. We swoop back down onto the feathery rug.

It ends as we lay together, stomachs pumping for air, his head resting sideways on my chest, my arms around him. We stare in peaceful silence at the hearth.

After a while, Peeta leans up, propping himself on his elbow to look down at me. "Say something out loud."

I stroke his arm. "Moonlight and Sunset. Why did we call each other that?"

"I can only answer half that question."

"I called you Sunset because you're the kind of light that made me look forward to the darkness," I say. "The sunset was like...an introduction to nighttime. It made me less afraid of it."

"Careful, Katniss. You're beginning to sound like a fae."

I tap his chin. "Believe me, I'm not planning to lose my smart-ass human side."

He wraps one leg over both of mine, pinning me to the floor. "Good. It's what I fell for when you got here. Besides, it gives me an excuse to spank you."

"We'll talk ground rules later. Why did you call me Moonlight?"

"Honestly? Because it was shining down on you the night we met. I thought maybe those silver rays had created you. You say that I made the darkness a safer place for you. Well, you made the darkness a prettier place for me."

"Then we helped each other."

"We did."

"But we were stupid not to share our real names."

"We were ten," he says simply.

"Ten and stupid."

"It's irrelevant, Katniss. We're here now, we just made love, and we're going to do it again before I take you home. Please, don't dwell on anything else."

I feel my cheeks heat up. It would be impossible to dwell on anything else now that he put it that way.

Peeta continues, "And you'll learn about this world and who you are in it. And if you want to keep your real name, we can leave something else behind in the human world. Moonlight, if you'd like."

"Will I still get to use that nickname here?"

"Between us? Of course. There's no rule against that. I'm going to visit your house as often as your family can stand me—"

"You're my family, too," I stress.

"I've never had a real family before."

"You will now."

His smile is blinding. "When they allow it, I want you to come live here with me…if you want."

"Oh, Katniss wants that very much, but the infamous _they_ won't let that happen until I'm eighteen. Mom won't for sure."

"Fair enough."

We crawl into his bed and kiss and talk and kiss and talk. I fill him in on the town, how it's the same, how it's different. I worry that he's lost the chance to rediscover his home.

"This is home. With you." He takes my face in his hands. _"And the moon, it is resting. While the sun, it breaks free."_

I blink. " I know those lyrics."

"I don't doubt it. It's from a human band."

"You get that stuff here?"

"How did you think I knew of that Neruda poet? Anything creative, we have access to."

I pump my arm. "Yes! We totally have to make a list—"

He places a finger on my lips. "Later."

The kissing and talking goes on. Mostly the kissing. I like doing it while on top of him. I like sucking his ear into my mouth and flicking my tongue over the earring stud.

We banter over the rules of the games we used to play. I challenge him to a thumb war. It's even more fun to do bare-assed. We call it a draw after four rounds.

By then, the flames have shrunk. The emotional chaos of the day obliterates my adrenaline rush, but I've never been so happy to be exhausted. We hold each other and fall sleep.

In the morning, I stir and find Peeta watching me. There's mischief in that smile. I remember my father's condition about my fae boyfriend bringing me home at a decent hour.

"Shit!" I lurch up and sputter, "My parents are going to kill me."

"I sent the mockingjay with a message for them," Peeta says. "They know you've been delayed. They might be displeased when you get there, but at least they won't worry."

I sink back into the covers. "Thank you."

"Someday you'll wake up here, and this will be your house," he says. "And you'll rise out of bed—naked is preferable."

"Was there any other option?"

"You'll wrap a blanket around your body and pad barefoot to the front door, where you'll look outside and find me picking you flowers. And I'll stop at the sight of you, your hair messed up, legs exposed, cheeks ruddy from sleep, and I'll thrust the flowers into your hand and carry you over the threshold. I'll be in a hurry to return you to bed and do this."

He leans forward and kisses me. We make a tent out of the blanket and hide beneath it, blocking out the rest of the world. We lay on our sides and face each other.

"Tell me more about us," Peeta whispers. "I want to hear it from you. I want to relive it."

I wouldn't consider myself the best storyteller, but I take his hand in mine, rest it between our heads, and begin, "Once there was a girl."

And he says, "And then there was a boy."

And I say, "And then there was a game…"

* * *

**Well, there it is. Full circle :)**

**Lots to say. Without a doubt, this was the most challenging fanfic I've done yet, and I loved every bit of it, and I'm truly going to miss these Fridays. I can't express enough how grateful I am for your support, your reviews and PMs, and for following my stories. Having this interaction with everyone means the world to me. Thank you to my betas, DustWriter and Chelzie. And to Ro Nordmann for saving my guy from having to convert that lovely banner into a cover.**

**Some people have asked about my next story. Indeed, I do have ideas for more AUs, but I can't say when I'll have time to write them. I'm spending the summer working on two original YA romances, and that will take priority. In the meantime, I will still be around to chat and read everyone's amazing work.**

**And if you'd like to keep tabs on me, here's an announcement I never thought I'd make: I have a tumblr now. Visit me at ********************"andshewaits" dot-tumblr-dot-c0m**, where I'll post snippets about my novels and fanfics, maybe a surprise here and there, and bits about the writing life. Link can also be found on my profile.  


**Have a beautiful summer and thank you so much for spending time with Fae Peeta and Katniss!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Okay, this wasn't planned. But then my lovely beta, Chelzie, graduated. I offered a gift, and this is what she wished for. Congrats, my friend!  
**

**So here it is. Short and sweet ;)**

* * *

_Epilogue_

_Sunset_

I'm happy that she's late for breakfast. It gives me time to do something that I once said I would do. I pick flowers for her in the garden by our cottage. Blue ones.

Always blue.

Always an _always_. There. Somewhere. Everywhere.

It's been a year since she came back to me. We've been living together only a few months, since her birthday, but we have gathered enough _always_ to live off—we could practically eat them.

Always. So many ways to say it, mean it, use it. The word likes to sneak up on us during different parts of the day or night, popping its head over our blanket or swaying between the trees, startling us while I paint or while she braids her hair. The word will come out breathy and light, like something new. Or it will come out like a demand, rough around the edges, like it's hard to believe _always_ exists, though we cling to it anyway. Or it will come out desperate, like we aren't allowed to say it more than once and must choose carefully.

Other times, we say it the way we say one another's names. Like we were born with it.

I don't know about Katniss, but our word—because it's _ours_—makes me feel literal. Physically endless. Boundless. Does that even make sense?

No. Nothing makes sense with her. That's the best part about us.

My mouth lifts. The blue petals are plump. The purple sky turns over the way a person waking up would, slowly opening its eyes.

She won't be expecting the bouquet. She won't be surprised either. She knows me and my ways. I'm the only one whose sentimentality she tolerates. Anyone who has survived her free-falling tongue and feisty scowl can testify: I have every right to be proud of my rare gift. I'm Katniss-compatible.

It's the imperfect flowers that she'll appreciate, that draw me in. The ones that grow despite their flaws. The ones nobody would commonly want. I can spot them better than any forest guardian.

I find a particularly wilted bloom and bend over to collect it. When the wind shifts, my grin tingles. I bend far over. Far, far over.

_Now, you're just showing off._

Her voice runs through my mind like a slender finger that knows which direction it wants to go. Down to secret places.

We've played this game before. The teasing. The "showing off." Poking at each other's weaknesses until one of us melts. Most of the time, she's the one who loses and pounces on me first.

My head twists over my shoulder. I look up and see her standing on our roof, one leg propped on the smoking chimney. It's been her favorite spot on which to make an appearance since she discovered an unparalleled sense of fae balance.

She wears a soft but durable green dress, ending above the knees and allowing her to move easily through the woods. Strips of darker green and silver leather weave around the sleeve cuffs and hem, creating a braid design that matches her hairstyle. My mind goes straight to the tight green shorts that I know are beneath the material—she calls them boyshorts.

Her silver quiver hangs over her shoulder. Hours of prowling the forest have produced a satisfied sheen on her cheeks. As a fae, the color of her eyes has sharpened to a more blinding type of gray, the kind that can either slice a person's heart in half or protect it like a shield. She owns me with her eyes.

The mockingjay perches beside her. Of course.

I stand. Katniss jumps back.

"Oh, did I scare you?" I joke.

_Ha! You wish. If that dog-wolf can't scare me anymore, your ass sure can't. _

"No, but it can do other things to you. Shall I turn and wiggle it again?"

_Wait. Let me get closer for this._

I laugh as she slides down the side of the roof, landing on both feet. The wind shifts with her again. We discovered that it does this around her. It reacts to her, moves with her, follows her through Hob Forest. It's a gale whenever she's angry at something—or someone like Haymitch or Effie. It's a light breeze whenever she's content, usually after visiting her family or Cinna, or while resting her head in my lap. It's a still and concentrated pocket of air whenever she's hunting with her father, as she has been this morning.

She has become a huntress in the deepest sense. She understands animals on an emotional level beyond that of a normal fae. If they're not prey, they flock to her for guidance, sometimes needing her to settle disputes over territory and maintain a balance between the species.

If they are prey, they take care to avoid her. Which isn't easy. She can locate their tracks even when they seemed to have vanished, can smell and hear them from fathomless distances. She has surpassed her father already.

I cross my arms. "Where's your game bag?'

She shrugs. _Already in the kitchen._

I hadn't heard a thing. I'm impressed.

She detaches a small pouch from her hip and whispers to the mockingjay flapping its wings next to her. The bird clamps the pouch in its beak and flies away.

I'm suspicious. "What was that about?"

She stares at her boots. _Just a nothing I collected for someone._

There are three scenarios in which my silver girl uses her thoughts to communicate with me. To flirt. To make a comment that she doesn't want company to hear. And to deal with a sore subject.

I know what was in that pouch. It wasn't healing herbs for her mother and Prim.

"Finnick," I say.

Katniss looks at me. _He thought Annie would like the blue buds. They don't grow in her region._

I sigh. We've forgiven him, but we haven't forgotten. I still don't know where our friendship stands, but Katniss believes that if Finnick and Annie end up happy together, he and I might someday find a middle ground again. I don't know.

But Katniss likes Annie—especially now that Annie's interest in me has faded. For mystical reasons, Katniss thinks Finnick could be good for Annie. Katniss is really doing this for her. She doesn't do Finnick any favors.

I've gotten into plenty of debates with her over this, but I'm slowly pulling back. I trust her judgment. And perhaps I miss Finnick too, and I want her to be right, though I doubt it could ever be the same between us. We shall see. I'm more willing than I was, say, yesterday.

I walk across the grass and hold out the flowers. Her gaze floats down. She takes them and just stares, without touching them or inhaling their scent. Just one long, unwavering stare. It's a perfect reaction.

_You remembered._

"Yes," I say.

_Hmm. A few details are wrong._

Her smirk is correct, but we've started our game again. I play dumb.

"Really?" I ask, scratching my head. "I don't think so. Remind me."

_You said I would wake up and be standing in the doorway when I found you doing this._

"And?"

_That I would be naked and wrapped in a blanket._

"And?"

_That you would carry me back into the house._

"And?" I whisper, giving her a doubtful look.

"And I'm always right," she whispers back, then slaps my backside.

We move closer, even though we really can't. My head dips. My kiss tells her that I'm the loser this morning, that I've given into her. It's the most fun way to lose game, and it's the scariest, letting her have this power over me. Sometimes I'm afraid she'll disappear, that we'll slip from each other again. Sometimes I wake up and reach out for her, just to make sure.

I reach out now, but I'm not worried. When she first told me she was staying in this world, I predicted this moment. Today, I made it happen, and as long as I do that with every other moment ahead, she'll be here. This will be home. Always.

Katniss is right. The details are wrong. I can fix one of them.

I hoist her off her feet and carry her inside, the flowers crushed between our bodies and becoming even more tattered. Natural creatures that have truly lived and carry scars.

I envision Katniss's head on the pillow and the rest of her beneath me, in just a few more steps. I close the door behind us. I make real everything that happens next.


End file.
